Worst Fears
by dee768nj
Summary: Complete! A story of repentance. Ranger's worst fears come horribly to life. An enemy from his past takes Stephanie, and he goes through hell trying to find her. Babe story, not kind to Morelli. HUGE WARNINGS for violence, sexual violence, angst.
1. Prologue & Chapter 1

_**WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING!!**_

_**Dark, extremely angsty, graphic violence and sexual content later in the story. It is NOTHING like my story Taking Charge. NOT a feel-good story, and there is not one bit of romance in it. The idea came into my head and I just had to get it out of my system.**_

_**Babe, not nice to Morelli.**_

_**The really bad stuff begins in Part 2, chapter 8 and beyond. DO NOT READ if violence, pain, extreme angst, and graphically depicted sexual acts upset you.**_

_**Oh, yeah, and warning for language, too.**_

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money. Recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich. Song lyrics belong to Linkin Park._

**Worst Fears**

By Dee

**Prologue—From the Inside**

_Take everything from the inside and throw it all away  
Cuz I swear for the last time I won't trust myself with you  
—Linkin Park (Meteora)__  
_

_Saturday, April 12_

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that a newspaper photograph would be my undoing, a photograph that I had no idea was being taken. It wasn't until I saw the paper that I realized the magnitude of my fuckup.

"Fuck," I said out loud as I picked up the Saturday morning Trenton Times off the breakfast bar where Ella had left it for me. On the front left, above the fold, was a large color photograph.

Looking at the picture objectively, I could see why they gave it such prominence. It was colorful, perfectly balanced and interesting.

The background was dominated by fire—an automobile burning. Actually, burning might be a slight understatement. The car was a conflagration, brilliant red and orange and yellow flames shooting up into the night sky, sparks flying and leaving streaking tracers shooting off the edges of the photo like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

In front of the car a man was holding a woman in his arms. The photo had been taken with a long lens, shortening the field so that the couple in the foreground looked like they were standing just a few feet from the flames.

The woman's beautiful but pale face was turned to the side against the man's chest so that you could see her profile. Tears were clearly visible painting vertical tracks in the soot on her cheek, and a riot of brown curls cascaded down her back.

The man had much darker skin, and long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Most people would think he was good-looking, but it was his expression that caught my eye. He was looking down at the woman with affection clearly written on his face.

Stephanie and me.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!

The headline was printed boldly above the photo: "Bombshell strikes again!" The caption below the picture read, "Trenton's own bombshell bounty hunter, Stephanie Plum, is comforted by RangeMan Enterprises CEO Carlos Manoso as her car burns in the background. Story on page 5."

And at the side of the picture in very tiny print going up along the edge, "AP wirephoto by Chris Barna, Trenton Times."

Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck,_ fuck_!

How the hell could I have been so unaware of my surroundings that a photographer could have taken that picture without me knowing it? Of course the answer was obvious. Stephanie.

It was bad enough that half of Trenton thought Stephanie was mine. But AP was national, and this photo could get picked up anywhere. God help us if any of my enemies saw it. And I had many.

As much as I hated to do it, I needed to separate myself from Stephanie, make it clear to everyone that she belonged to the cop, not to me.

Fuck.

_oOo_

**Part I—Wounds So Deep**

_  
Something has been taken from deep inside of me  
The secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see  
Wounds so deep they never show, they never go away  
Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they've played_

_If I could change I would, take back the pain I would  
Retrace every wrong move that I made I would  
If I could stand up and take the blame I would  
I would take all my shame to the grave  
—Linkin Park (__Easier to Run, Meteora__)_

**Chapter 1**

_Wednesday, April 30_

"Call the Bombshell," Tank said with finality as he walked out of the conference room.

Shit. I'd managed to avoid Stephanie for almost three weeks, but I didn't see any choice but to bring her in.

I'd just spent a half hour arguing with Tank, trying to figure out some way, any way, to pick up Richie Gonzales without having to use Stephanie for a distraction.

There was no other way.

I exhaled in what some might consider a sigh, but since I didn't do sighing it was just an audible exhale. Pulling out my phone I pressed speed dial one for Stephanie's cell.

"Yo." I could hear the smile in her voice when she answered.

"Yo yourself, Babe."

"I haven't seen you in ages. Where've you been hiding?"

"Work. And speaking of work, are you available for a distraction Friday night?"

"Sure. When and where? And what kind of slutty?"

"I'll pick you up at seven. Extra Innings, so professional slutty."

"Okay, I'll be ready."

I flipped my phone shut with a snap.

_oOo_

_Friday, May 2_

The two days until Friday seemed to crawl by, filled with paperwork and meetings, and the kind of mundane tasks I never envisioned when I started RangeMan. And the anticipation of seeing Stephanie made the time pass even slower.

Stephanie…

Her beauty and innocence brought light into my darkness. Those eyes, those lips, those long legs… If it weren't for my past I'd make her mine in an instant. I told her my lifestyle doesn't lend itself to relationships, and true as that is, I'd be happy to make an exception for her.

But that's not the real problem.

My thoughts were interrupted by Tank. "Ready, Range-man?"

I looked at him in assent and rose to my feet.

"You drive," I said as we walked from the stairwell into the garage.

"Don't you want to take the Bombshell in the Turbo?" he asked with a sharp look at my face, trying to read my expression.

I just looked back, expressionless, giving him what Stephanie liked to call my blank face, and walked to the passenger door of his Hummer. Being alone with Stephanie in the Turbo wasn't conducive to resisting her.

"Bobby and Lester in place at the bar?" I asked as we fastened our seatbelts, glancing across the garage to make sure Manny and Zero were in an Explorer waiting to follow us.

"Affirmative."

As we drove up Chambers and turned right onto Hamilton toward Stephanie's apartment, I wondered what she would wear for the after-work TGIF atmosphere of Innings. A little suit, I thought, black silk hugging her curves. Short skirt revealing yards of those long, I-want-to-feel-them-wrapped-around-me legs. No blouse, just the suit jacket buttoned to her cleavage. Maybe the lace of her bra showing.

Fuck. I had to stop thinking about her. The powerful vibration of the Hummer coupled with the expectation of seeing Stephanie had brought me to semi-hardness.

The cop, I told myself, think about the cop. They were in an on-again phase, and rumor had it that it might be permanent this time. According to my sources she'd been seriously considering giving up her apartment and moving in with him.

That would be best, I thought. I'd sent her back to him for a reason, even if it wasn't the reason I gave her. But the thought of her in his bed for good, maybe even married to him, gave me a sharp jab in my chest, like a nail being driven through my heart.

Well, at least the painful thoughts had dispelled the physical reaction, I thought as we pulled into Stephanie's parking lot. I noted her latest piece-of-shit vehicle, an ancient red Nissan, parked next to the dumpster as usual.

Tank stopped at the door to the apartment building and I stepped out of the Hummer. "Be right back," I said.

"Range-man, forgetting something?" he asked, holding up the wire that I'd left lying on the console.

I shook my head slightly and walked toward the door. No more touching, no more kissing. I had to maintain my distance from Stephanie. It was the only way to protect her.

I knocked on her door. In the past I would have just let myself in, but no more. She belonged to another man and I was going to respect that.

No answer, no sound from within the apartment. I emptied my mind and body and let my senses reach out. I could always feel Stephanie when she was nearby, and I knew she could feel me, too, in some kind of physical bond that was beyond rational comprehension.

I felt… nothing. Emptiness. Unless our connection had inexplicably disappeared, she wasn't here.

I pulled out my keys and unlocked the door. The chain wasn't hooked and the door silently pivoted open to its full extent.

Something was wrong. It hit me the second I saw the entranceway. There was none of the clutter that I usually associated with Stephanie's life. No handbag on the floor, no shoes carelessly discarded in the hall, no coat hanging on the hook on the wall.

No hook on the wall.

My breath huffed out hard. I felt as if I'd taken brass knuckles to the gut.

Keeping my hands close to my sides, careful not to touch anything, I stepped into the apartment. I looked in the living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen. Empty. No furniture, no clothing, no cosmetics, no dishes.

Nothing.

Except a single sheet of paper on the kitchen counter.

A note, printed from a computer on plain white paper.

_I need some time away to think things over.  
Please don't look for me.  
Stephanie_

_TBC_


	2. Chapters 2 & 3

**Chapter 2**

I pulled out my cell phone and pressed speed dial for Stephanie.

Straight to voicemail. Either turned off or dead battery.

I punched in the RangeMan control room. Junior answered.

"Junior, activate Stephanie's GPS pen and give me a location."

"Right away, boss. One second."

I waited, listening to him punching buttons on the main control console.

"Boss," Junior said, "No signal."

"Keep it open, and call me immediately if you pick it up."

I disconnected and dialed again.

"Tank, get up here right now. Bring gloves."

Snapping the phone shut I stood in the kitchen, eyes closed, letting my mind clear, trying to get a sense of Stephanie, see if there was any residue of her spirit left in the apartment, any confusion, misery, pain, fear.

Nothing.

It was as if she had never been here.

I felt Tank's presence behind me and turned, accepting the pair of latex gloves he handed me. Pulling one glove on, I gingerly picked up the corner of the note to look at the other side.

Blank.

I left it lying there on the counter, Tank staring down at it, and pulled out my phone again to dial the cop.

"Morelli," he answered.

"It's Manoso. Is Stephanie with you?"

"No, I haven't seen her since Wednesday morning. Why?"

"She's gone."

"What do you mean, gone?"

"I was supposed to pick her up at seven for a job. I'm at her apartment and it's empty. She's moved out."

"What?!" Morelli's voice was about an octave higher than usual, and then I could almost physically feel him clamping down his control as his voice dropped back to normal levels. "Moved out? How do you know?"

"Her apartment is completely empty, cleaned out. No furniture, no clothes, nothing in the cupboards. Just a note on the counter, computer printed."

"What does the note say?"

I read it to him.

"Stay there. I'm coming right over."

I ushered Tank out into the hallway, pulling the door shut with my still-gloved hand.

"Stay here. Don't let anyone in."

Stripping off the glove and shoving it into my pocket with its mate, I walked down two flights of stairs to the basement and knocked on the super's door, searching the memory banks of my mind for his name. Dillon, I thought.

He came to the door holding a can of beer, wearing a grubby white t-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants, feet bare. His face was stubbly and his eyes were red-rimmed and bleary. His medium-length dishwater-blonde hair was sticking out in all directions, as if he'd been running his hands through it.

"Oh, hey, dude," he said woozily, recognizing me. "You're Steph's friend, uh…"

"Ranger Manoso," I supplied.

"Yeah, that's it." His expression was almost comical, like a cartoon light bulb had gone on over his head.

"Have you seen or heard from Stephanie in the past couple of days?"

"No, man. Haven't seen her in over a week, since she invited me up to fix her kitchen sink. It was dripping and I put a new washer in. We had a couple of beers and watched the game."

"Has she paid her rent yet for this month?"

"Jeez, I dunno, let me check the box. Come on in."

I entered the apartment. It was a pigsty, every horizontal surface covered with a conglomeration of stuff—clothing, tools, bags of snack food, dirty dishes, piles of junk mail, magazines and newspapers—you name it and it was probably there.

Dillon closed the door behind me and lifted the lid on a metal box fastened to the back side. There was a slot in the door and any envelopes or messages dropped through the slot would land in the box.

The open top of the box revealed its contents—one plain white envelope, sealed, nothing written on the outside. It gave me a hinky feeling.

"Wait," I said sharply as Dillon was reaching out to get it. "Don't touch it."

He stopped abruptly at my tone of voice.

"Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to startle you. But Stephanie's gone, and that envelope might be evidence."

I pulled the latex gloves out of my pocket and slipped them on. Picking up the envelope, I turned it and looked at the other side.

Ordinary #10 envelope, available from any office supply store, the kind with the blue printing on the inside to obscure the contents. Self-stick, I was disappointed to note. No envelope glue, no possibility of DNA from saliva.

I pulled out my pocket knife and carefully slit the flap.

The sheet of paper inside looked identical to the one lying upstairs on Stephanie's counter. The words, however, were a little different.

_I'm moving away from Trenton.  
Please cancel my lease.  
Stephanie Plum_

I held the paper up so Dillon could read it.

"Aw, man, that sucks. Steph was cool, ya know?"

"When does her lease expire?"

"First of September."

"How much is her rent?"

"Five hundred a month."

"I'll send you a check for it. Hold the apartment for when she comes back."

He nodded.

"When did you last check the box for mail?"

"Last night around dinner time. There were three rent checks in there. I was gonna take them to the bank today, but I never got around to it."

"I need this," I told Dillon, holding up the letter and envelope.

"Sure, man, no sweat." He held a hand up, palm facing me, and backed away as I let myself out.

I entered the stairwell and stopped, leaning back against the metal fire door as it clanged shut behind me, taking deep, even breaths and fighting the nausea that was threatening. I forced my mind to go blank, not thinking about Stephanie.

It's just another missing person, I said to myself. No emotions involved. Keep your mind on the goal, eye on the prize. Investigate, follow the leads, stay on it. You'll find her.

Swallowing the bile in my throat I climbed back up to the second floor.

_oOo_

**Chapter 3**

I reached Stephanie's hallway and said to Tank, "Get Alvirez up here with a kit."

Tank pulled out his phone and punched at it, walking away down the hall as he spoke softly.

When he finished and turned back toward me I said, "And cancel tonight's operation."

"Already done, boss."

As I stood there concentrating on breathing slowly and steadily, trying to relax my tensed muscles, the stairwell door opened and out stepped Morelli. His face was drawn and he looked tired and exasperated.

"What the hell has Steph got herself into now?" he asked me.

I just shook my head, unable to even speak civilly. He loved her, I was certain of that, but he hated her job and hated her association with me even more. If he had his way, she'd be barefoot, pregnant, and confined to the house. His house. And I'd never catch a glimpse of her again.

I was still holding the envelope and letter I'd gotten from Dillon in a gloved hand and Morelli looked at it. I held the sheet of paper so he could read it.

Finding my voice, I said, "The super found it in his mailbox. It hasn't been touched. Neither has the one in her apartment."

After reading the two sentences Morelli asked, "Did you go through the apartment?"

"Just superficially. I didn't touch anything except the outside of the doorknob when I went in."

He gestured at the doorknob and I used my gloved hand to turn it. Pushing it open I stepped back to let him enter.

He walked two steps into the apartment and stopped. I could see the tension in his neck and shoulders and made a conscious effort to relax my own. I waited in the hallway while he walked through.

His voice came from the kitchen. "Do you have extra gloves?"

Tank was right behind me and he wordlessly handed me a pair. I walked to the kitchen doorway and passed them in.

Morelli lifted the piece of paper, as I had, to check the other side. It was still blank.

He reached up and pulled open cupboard doors. Completely empty. He turned to the refrigerator. Also empty, and spotless. It looked to me like the whole place had been wiped down. There wasn't a smudge, a speck of dirt anywhere.

I walked into the bathroom. The shower curtain was gone, and the tub was spotless, almost sparkling. Much cleaner than I'd ever seen it when Stephanie lived here. Not a hair in the drain, nothing. Same with the sink.

I reached up a gloved hand and opened the medicine chest. Also spotless, wiped clean. Someone had done a thorough job.

I walked back to the kitchen where Morelli was standing, hands on the counter on each side of the piece of paper, head down.

"I called for a crime scene kit," I said. "I know your hands are tied officially for forty-eight hours, and I don't want to wait that long."

"What was the job tonight?" he asked without turning but bringing his head up.

"Picking up a fugitive from Extra Innings. Richie Gonzales."

From the slight angle I had on him I could see his jaw tense, the muscle at the corner bulging.

His voice was harsh. "Is there any chance he had anything to do with this?"

"None. He doesn't know we're after him. And even if he found out, he'd have no way of knowing Stephanie might be involved."

"What do you think happened?"

"I think someone has her. This is a very professional clean-up job. And I think the quicker we get on it the better the chance we have of finding her." Alive, I didn't add, but he knew what I meant.

Tank had been waiting in the entrance hall, and his voice floated in. "Alvirez is here, boss."

Morelli turned and looked at me.

"RangeMan's crime scene expert," I said. "He'll collect any evidence there is and turn it over to the official investigation once it begins."

Morelli looked furious and opened his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut again. He knew he had no options. As of right this moment since there was no evidence of foul play, Stephanie couldn't even be declared officially missing. As a cop he could do nothing, and I knew he wouldn't want to wait until forty-eight hours had passed. I was doing him a favor, and once he calmed down and put aside his dislike for me he'd be grateful.

"I'm going to watch to make sure he follows proper evidence collection procedures," he said.

"Alvirez is a certified crime scene investigator, formerly with the State SIS. He's more qualified that most of your TPD CSSes, and he's been an expert witness in dozens of court cases. But feel free to watch if you think that's the best use of your time. I'm going to start canvassing the neighbors before they're all tucked in for the night."

SIS is the State Police's Special Investigative Services, the most expert crime scene investigators in New Jersey. Morelli knew as well as I did that Trenton's crime scene specialists weren't even in the same league.

"I'll make some phone calls and find out when she was last seen," Morelli said, pulling out his phone.

"Try not to scare them," I said. The last thing we needed was a bunch of hysterical friends and family members on our hands.

Acknowledging his nod of assent with a slight nod of my own I turned and walked out into the hallway.

_TBC_


	3. Chapters 4 & 5

**Chapter 4**

"Well, I haven't seen Stephanie since, mmm, I think it was Monday… Mmm, yes, I had a doctor's appointment at three o'clock, and I was just getting home around five. It always takes so long at the doctor's office. They make you wait for an hour in the waiting room, and then another half hour in the examining room, and all that for the doctor to say, you're going to outlive me, Mrs. Orbach, and finally give me my prescriptions. I think we should all band together and demand better service from the medical profession. There's no reason I should have to wait so long just to get my prescriptions. My time is valuable, too."

I jumped in when she paused for breath, trying to get her back on topic. "So Mrs. Orbach, did you see Stephanie on Monday when you got home?"

"Yes, that's what I was just telling you. I got home at five o'clock and the parking lot was almost full and I had to park in the last row, and there was just one spot left right next to the dumpster. And as I was getting out of my car Stephanie pulled in by the dumpster in that little red car she's been driving lately. You know, the one with the different-colored back fender and the crumpled hood?"

"Yes, ma'am, I know the car. Did you talk with Stephanie?"

"Well of course. She's a lovely young woman and she carried my bag of groceries up to my apartment for me. I had to stop at the Seven-Eleven and get some milk and eggs and bread so I could have scrambled eggs for my supper. I always have scrambled eggs and toast on Monday nights."

"And you haven't seen her since Monday?"

"No, I haven't."

"Have you seen anyone going in or out of her apartment since Monday?"

"Well, that nice Officer Morelli was there on Tuesday night. I can see the parking lot from my window," she gestured toward the window next to her chair, "and I saw him arrive around six o'clock with a pizza box and a bag from Pino's. I can tell the Pino's bags by the red chef throwing green pizza dough up into the air. Although why they'd make the pizza dough green is beyond me."

She took a breath. "His car was out in the parking lot all night. I just don't understand young people these days, staying overnight and living together without getting married. Things were different when I was young. I wasn't even allowed to be alone with a young man until I got engaged."

"How do you know Officer Morelli's car was in the lot all night?" I jumped in quickly before she could give me the lecture on why today's young people are going to hell in a handbasket.

"I have a bit of trouble sleeping and I often sit and look out the window during the night. I have my nice comfortable recliner right here," she patted the arm of her chair, "and I put my feet up and watch and then doze on and off. I saw his car still out there at about four in the morning and then I dozed off and when I woke up at six it was gone."

"Mrs. Orbach, how about Wednesday and Thursday night? Did you notice anything unusual out in the parking lot those nights?"

"Well, I didn't see Stephanie or Officer Morelli. There isn't very much traffic in the lot at night. You know, most of the residents here are seniors, and we tend to stay home in the evenings and go to bed early. Of course I know there are others like me who have trouble sleeping and sit up late. Myron Landowski has trouble, and Leo Wolensky watches TV all hours of the day and night. When I go out to get my paper early in the morning I can always hear his TV blasting. My ears are still pretty good, but Leo is as deaf as a post."

"So you didn't see anything happening in the parking lot the last couple of nights?" I was reaching the end of my patience with Mrs. Orbach and I put my hand on the arm of the couch and leaned forward to rise.

"No, nothing except the truck."

My arms and legs gave out and I collapsed back onto the couch. My voice was constricted and I could barely get it to work. "Tell me about the truck."

"It was last night, in the middle of the night. It arrived around one a.m. It backed right up into the loading zone by the door and two large men got out. They got armloads of boxes from the back of the truck and walked into the building. I was wondering what the truck was doing there in the middle of the night. Not a normal time to move furniture, if you know what I mean. I watched for a while and didn't see anything happening, and then I guess I must have dozed off, because when I woke up at six it was gone. Hmph, it's funny, I'd forgotten all about it until you asked."

"Can you describe the truck?"

"Well, as far as I could see in the dark it was a plain white truck, kind of middle sized. The kind of truck people use when they're moving an apartment full of furniture, but not a full-size moving van. I'm pretty sure there was no writing on the side of the truck, because I think I would have noticed if there was."

I leaned forward, willing her to remember. "Could you tell what color the cab was?"

"It looked red. It was parked right by the streetlight that lights the back door. There may have been a small white sign on the cab, but I couldn't tell if it said anything. It was too small, and too dark."

"Did you notice anything in particular about the men that got out of the truck?"

She closed her eyes, obviously doing her best to picture them in her mind. "They were both big, as if they used to be muscular but are now going a bit to fat. They still looked strong, you understand, but just like they enjoyed too many good meals."

"I understand perfectly. Could you tell anything else about them? Their age? Race? Clothing?"

Her eyes popped open when I spoke, but then drifted shut again as she remembered. "They were both wearing workman-type clothes, maybe coveralls, dark colored. It was hard to see more in the dark. They were both white, and they weren't old or young, somewhere in the middle. If I had to take a guess I'd say thirties or forties." She opened her eyes. "That's really all I could tell. And I fell asleep before they came back out, so I just had that one quick look."

"Mrs. Orbach, you've been a huge help. Your powers of observation are commendable. Is there anything else at all you can tell me about the truck or the men?"

"Nothing that I can think of right now. I hope Stephanie isn't in any trouble."

"I hope so, too," I said, handing her a business card as I rose. "If you think of anything else at all about the truck or the men, even if you think it's unimportant, please call me."

"You're a very polite young man, and I'll do anything I can to help Stephanie."

"Thank you, Mrs. Orbach."

_oOo_

**Chapter 5**

_A week later—Friday, May 9_

Tank stuck his head into my office. "Morelli is on his way up."

"I'll be right there."

I pushed the papers scattered over my desk into a pile and used my arms to push myself up from my seat, almost too weary to stand up on my own. A whole week with no word, no leads.

I'd tried everything I could think of, called in every marker, made every connection, and nothing. It was as if Stephanie had vanished from the face of the earth.

My mind told me she was at the bottom of the river, or buried in an unmarked grave somewhere. But my heart wouldn't listen.

Every day, several times, I would call on every meditation technique I'd ever learned, trying to empty myself completely, reaching out for her. I never felt a single twinge, not one solitary indication that she was still alive.

And yet my heart was still beating. I was certain she was out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her.

I entered the conference room and sat down at the head of the table. The seats on each side of me were empty, but the rest of the table was filled. Bobby and Lester, Manny and Zero, Hal and Ram, Vince and Woody were all crowded in, with Alvirez at the foot of the table.

We sat in silence, everyone shuffling papers and refusing to meet my eyes. That was a bad sign, I knew. Nobody would have anything positive to report.

Within a minute Tank entered with Joe Morelli and they took the seats next to me.

"Report," I said tersely, looking first at the cop.

"I tried three different contacts at the FBI, and all three declined. They won't get involved until there's some actual evidence of a kidnapping."

Fuck. I thought as much, but I was hoping Morelli's personal relationship with a couple of the feebs would convince them to open a file.

"Anything new with Steph's family?"

"No."

There had been identical letters to Stephanie's parents and to Vincent Plum's office, exactly the same as the one I found in her apartment, as if someone had printed out the same letter three times. They were in envelopes identical to the one that Dillon's had been in, with a standard-size computer-generated address label bearing the name and address. They were postmarked Trenton, last Friday, and were probably dropped into a mailbox on Thursday night or early Friday morning when Dillon's letter was delivered.

"Anything else to report?" I asked the cop, hoping against hope that the department had turned up some little thing that might give us the break we needed to find Stephanie.

"Nothing."

"Lester?"

"Bobby and I have gone over in detail every distraction and field job Stephanie did with RangeMan. The skips are all accounted for, most of them still in jail. A few are out, but we've found them and checked enough to be almost positive they didn't take her."

I nodded. "Manny? Zero?"

Manny answered for them both. "We've looked into and cleared most of the skips Stephanie has picked up in the past year, and about half of the ones from the two years before that. We haven't found anything, but we'll keep at it until we locate every single one."

I nodded again. "Hal? Ram?"

Hal spoke first. "We've visited every store or business with a security camera within a mile radius of Stephanie's apartment. Most of them have cooperated and let us look through their tapes for the night of the second, but there are a couple that are being hardnosed about it and won't give up the tapes without a court order."

Ram looked at Morelli. "Any chance of getting a judge to sign off?"

Morelli nodded. "Give me the info and I'll do warrants. I've got a judge who knows Steph. He'll sign them."

I looked further down the table. "Vince?"

"I've spent the entire week watching Steph's credit card, cell phone, and e-mail account and there's been no activity on any of them. I'm currently working backwards through every single purchase, phone call, and e-mail, looking for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. I've gotten almost a year back without finding anything, but I'll keep going."

"Woody?"

"I re-interviewed every resident of the apartment building. One other resident, Mr. Landowski, saw the moving truck, and he saw the men taking out furniture and boxes. But he couldn't give any better description of the men or truck than you already got from Mrs. Orbach."

Finally I looked at Alvirez. "Dino?" He'd been updating me daily on the progress of the labwork, so I knew everything he had to report, but I wanted him to summarize it for the team.

"As you know, boss, the apartment was cleaned. There were no fingerprints, no hair, no trace evidence, nothing. All surfaces were wiped down with common household cleaner, and the carpet was vacuumed thoroughly and shampooed. The residue of the shampoo was a standard brand available in every discount store and a lot of grocery stores."

He glanced around the room before continuing. "All the letters, envelopes, and labels were completely clean, no fingerprints, no DNA, no trace whatsoever. The paper and envelopes were ordinary office-supply-store stock, and the ink was from an Epson inkjet printer consistent with the one Stephanie had. The font was also consistent with the type of computer she had."

"Do you believe the letters were written and printed at Stephanie's using her computer and printer before the apartment was cleaned out?"

"Yes sir, I do."

I looked around the room. "Anyone have anything else?" Unanimous negative head shaking. "Okay, you all have your assignments. We'll meet back here Monday morning at 0800."

I stood, and everyone else rose with me, Morelli nodding at me as Tank waited to escort him out. This was our third team meeting, and Morelli looked more and more exhausted as each day passed, with dark circles under sunken eyes. He'd been working his usual vice/homicide detail and spending every free minute investigating Stephanie's disappearance.

I didn't think I looked much better. I hadn't slept more than an hour out of each twenty-four for the past week, or eaten more than a few bites of the delicious meals Ella had been trying to tempt me with. Tank was running RangeMan's normal business and I'd spent an inordinate amount of time out on the streets, talking to contacts, trying to get a whisper, a tiny breath about Stephanie.

But there had been nothing, from anywhere. At this point I was about ninety-nine percent certain she wasn't in Trenton. And that thought brought the low-level nausea I'd been battling since the moment I found Stephanie's empty apartment bubbling to the surface.

Stephanie had been gone seven days.

_TBC_


	4. Chapters 6 & 7

**Chapter 6**

_Six days later—Thursday, May 15_

I walked into Vincent Plum Bail Bonds on Thursday afternoon. I hadn't been here in two weeks, since the day before Stephanie's disappearance. Tank had been picking up RangeMan's files.

Connie and Lula froze when I walked in, two pairs of eyes burning holes in me, accusing me of being mortal. Batman would have found Stephanie by now.

Their expressions pierced me more than I would have thought possible, but I mustered my inner resources to keep my face blank. "Is he in?" I asked, indicating Vinnie's office.

Connie nodded wordlessly and gestured toward the door.

Vinnie was sitting behind his desk, and he closed his laptop computer as I entered, slapping on his sleazy smile. "What can I do for you today, Ranger?"

I gave him a hard stare, watching the smile dissolve and be replaced by fear. After a long minute I spoke. "I heard you're trying to replace Stephanie."

He looked apprehensive, but spoke up. "I can't wait forever for her to come back. I'm running a business here, and if I don't have anyone bringing in the FTAs I won't stay in business for long."

"RangeMan will pick up her skips until she gets back," I told him in my most authoritative voice.

"Okay, then. Good. I'll take care of everything."

I turned without a word and walked back out to my truck, nodding slightly to Connie and Lula as I passed them. The truth was, I couldn't have spoken if I wanted to. My whole consciousness was concentrated on maintaining a lack of expression, on not screaming, not crying, not collapsing into a blubbering heap on the ground.

I still hadn't been able to eat or sleep, and after almost two weeks it was showing, badly. My mirror reflected eyes red rimmed and ringed with the same dark circles as Morelli's. I hadn't shaved in days, and I had to tighten my belt an extra notch because of the weight I'd lost.

But I maintained control, both in the presence of other people and when I was alone.

_oOo_

"We've got something," Lester said to me when I got back to the office.

My heart jerked painfully in my chest, but I kept a neutral tone. "What?"

"One of the businesses that refused to give us its surveillance video complied with Morelli's warrant. We've got pictures of the truck."

I followed Lester into the conference room, my heart thumping. Maybe this was the break we needed to find Stephanie. The whole team was gathered there, including Morelli.

The video showed the moving truck driving by. There was a clear view of the front and passenger side as it came down the street, and Vince had enhanced the pictures to the nth degree to get us the maximum amount of information.

We spent more than an hour looking at the enlarged digital images on an oversized high-res monitor.

The sign on the side of the cab read "Harry's Moving and Storage." It was a white rectangle with red printing, and Ram said he was pretty sure that it was a magnetic sign. That was extremely bad news, because that meant it was most likely temporary. It had probably already been removed and deposited in a roadside trash can, by now emptied into a landfill.

There was no license plate on the front of the truck, another bad break, but there was no spot for one, either. That narrowed down the number of states it could be registered in. Not New Jersey or New York. But it still could be Pennsylvania, Delaware, or seventeen other states that don't require front plates on commercial vehicles, according to Ram's research.

That was all the information we could discern from the pictures. There appeared to be a small inspection sticker in the driver's side lower corner of the windshield, but that was pretty common. The quality of the video wasn't good enough to actually read the sticker, no matter how hard Vince tried to enhance it. But its placement might rule out a few states that required more than one sticker or permit, or those that put them on the passenger side.

There were no registration or vehicle numbers painted on the side of the truck, and the two figures inside were just dim silhouettes.

After all the hope that had built up in me at the first mention of the video, the letdown was tremendous. I felt like my head was going to split in half, and I headed for the gym to try to work off some of my fear and nervous energy.

Stephanie had been gone thirteen days.

_oOo_

_The next morning—Friday, May 16_

I woke up in my bed, groggy. I had a splitting headache and no memory of anything beyond pulling on a pair of exercise shorts in the locker room. My hands were swollen, the knuckles bruised and scraped.

Bobby appeared in the doorway as I was swinging my legs over the side of the bed to get up.

"I'm sorry, boss, but Tank, Lester and I agreed it was our only option."

I realized there was an IV in the hollow of my elbow and I began pulling at the tape that held it in place.

"Carlos." Bobby's voice stopped me cold. He almost never called me that, except when I was injured and in the hospital.

"Let me do that." With rapid efficiency he removed the IV and pressed a sterile gauze pad over the puncture. "Hold this for a minute, and I'll get you some ibuprofen."

I applied pressure to the spot to stop the bleeding and Bobby was back in a minute with a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water. He slapped a piece of tape tightly over the folded gauze pad and then handed me four caplets and the water.

"How long was I out?" I asked after swallowing the pills.

"Twelve hours. It's Friday morning, 0700."

"What did you give me?"

"Benzodiazepine. You almost killed yourself in the gym."

That's right. I remembered going to the big bag and punching out all my fear and pain, imagining it was the guy who took Stephanie.

"How'd you do it?"

"You pounded on the bag for over two hours and then just collapsed. You were dehydrated and twitching, and I was afraid you were going to have a convulsion. So I put in the IV for fluids and Tank and Lester helped me bring you up here. When you started to wake up I dosed you."

"I oughta fire all three of you," I said, standing up and walking into the bathroom.

When I came out fully dressed after showering and shaving, Bobby was waiting in the kitchen. There was a fresh pot of coffee and a breakfast tray containing scrambled eggs, toast, fruit, and a large glass of milk.

Bobby waved a hand at the tray. "If you eat that I'll let you go back to work. If not, I'll stun your ass and hook you up to the IV again."

I sat on a stool at the breakfast bar and ate the whole thing.

_oOo_

**Chapter 7**

I was feeling somewhat better. After the twelve hours of drug-induced sleep and a good breakfast I was much less on edge. The nausea I'd lived with for two weeks was barely noticeable.

At 0900 we had another meeting of the "Bombshell Team," as the guys had begun calling it. We were all out of leads, and the only thing left to do was to continue to work the streets and pray we could turn up someone that knew something.

I'd spent considerable time reviewing my past and making a list of anyone who might hate me enough to want to hurt someone I loved, and I'd asked Morelli to do the same. Morelli's list consisted of everyone he'd ever put behind bars, and he had Eddie Gazarra and Carl Costanza checking on its occupants in their spare time. They were still working on it, but I wasn't optimistic that it was going to lead us anywhere.

My own list was another story. There were over a hundred names I could come up with off the top of my head, and most of them were the worst of the worst. And since so much of the information was classified, only Tank, Lester or Bobby had sufficient clearance to access it. They were doing the best they could trying to track people down, but a lot of them were in other countries, on other continents, harder to track, and some had apparently disappeared from the face of the earth.

I had a few enemies from operations that were so highly classified that even my three lieutenants didn't have high enough clearance. These I was checking myself.

We had a disheartening meeting, with nobody having anything new to report, just more and more dead ends.

Afterward Morelli said to me, "Can I talk to you for a minute? Privately?"

"This way," I said, leading him into my office.

We settled into our respective chairs and I waited silently.

He cleared his throat. "I don't know quite how to say this," he began, but then stopped.

"Just say it," I growled. I wanted him out of my office so I could spend a couple hours on paperwork before hitting the streets again.

He cleared his throat a second time. "I think we should cut back on our meetings. We're running out of avenues to investigate, and I can't take many more days like today."

I was so furious that it was an enormous struggle to keep my jaw from clenching and to maintain a neutral tone. "If you want to give up on the investigation, just say so and I'll remove you from the team."

"No, no, that's not it at all. I don't want to give up. I just think we should slow the pace a bit. It's been two weeks, and we've found nothing at all. We've done everything I can think of and more, and we're no further along than we were the day it happened."

He sighed and slumped back in his chair. "And quite honestly, I don't think I can deal with any more dead ends. I need to step away and try to put my own life back in order."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice very soft.

"My captain is all over my ass because I've spent so much time the past two weeks on what he considers an unofficial investigation. If I don't get back to doing my regular job fulltime he's going to give me an official reprimand, or even possibly can me."

"You're one of the best investigators on the force. There's no way they're going to fire you."

"Well, I hope not, but I need to step back for a time. If you turn up any real evidence that Steph was abducted and didn't just take off on her own, I'll convince them to let me come back on it, but for right now I think I'm finished."

"Fine," I said, keeping my anger locked inside and my face expressionless.

He rose and walked to the door, pausing to look back just before stepping through. "If you come up with any new leads call me."

I gave him a miniscule nod and he walked out, closing the door behind him. I counted to ten slowly, my fists clenched in fury, and then willed myself to relax my jaw and release my white-knuckled grip.

Acid was bubbling up in my stomach and the tension was making my chest hurt. I closed my eyes and began my relaxation technique, a procedure that had gotten me through many a tight situation in the past. I cleared my mind and concentrated on relaxing my muscles one at a time.

The process reduced the strain in my body and even eased my mind a little bit. We didn't really need Morelli, and if something turned up that required police department power I could always bring him back in.

I shuffled papers for a couple of hours and was considering grabbing a quick bite of lunch before hitting the streets when Binkie knocked on my door. At my gruff "come in" he handed me a stack of mail and quickly retreated, closing the door behind him.

I set the pile on the recently cleared blotter in front of me and desultorily flipped through the envelopes.

As I got near the bottom of the pile there was a plain brown nine-by-twelve envelope, the kind with a metal clasp. The sight of the envelope made my skin prickle and my gut spasm, and I moved the rest of the mail to the side and stared at it.

Trenton postmark. Standard small mailing label, computer printed, with the words "PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL" in all capital letters on the top line. Below was my name, Carlos Manoso, followed by the RangeMan address. It looked the same as the labels that were on the letters to the bonds office and Stephanie's parents. No return address. Regular stamps on the envelope, not one of those metered postage labels.

I needed gloves, but I didn't have any in the office.

Wanting to keep this private until I saw what was in it, I got up from my desk and walked casually out to the storage room. Stuffing a pair of gloves into my pocket I went straight back to my office, closing and locking the door.

Pulling the gloves on I bent the metal clip that was the only thing holding the envelope shut. The glued flap hadn't been moistened, ruling out the possibility of recovering DNA from saliva.

The feeling of dread was growing as I pulled out a single sheet of photographic paper. Photo on one side, bold black printing on the other.

I looked at the picture and read the words, feeling nauseated and lightheaded.

Then I grabbed the trash can and vomited up everything in my stomach.

_TBC in Part II—What I've Done_


	5. Chapters 8, 9 & 10

_**WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING **__ oOo __** WARNING!!**_

_**This is where it starts getting really bad. Dark, extremely angsty, graphic violence and sexual violence coming up. DO NOT READ if violence, pain, extreme angst, and graphically depicted sexual acts upset you. I mean it!**_

_**Babe, and there will be Morelli-bashing.**_

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money. Recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich. Song lyrics belong to Linkin Park._

_oOo_

**Part II—What I've Done**_  
_

_So let mercy come  
And wash away  
What I've done  
I'll face myself  
To cross out what I've become  
Erase myself  
And let go of what I've done  
—Linkin Park (__Minutes to Midnight__)_

**Chapter 8**

_Friday, May 16_

It was my worst fear come to horrifying life. An enemy from my past had Stephanie.

My stomach lurched again. I bent back over the wastebasket, but there was nothing left to throw up.

When I was through dry-heaving, I tied shut the top of the bag that lined my trash can and looked at the picture again.

It was the AP photo of Stephanie and me with the car burning in the background, the slightly off colors and dot-like quality indicating it had been scanned from a newspaper. It appeared to have been printed with an inkjet printer on the type of glossy photographic paper made specifically for that purpose.

It was a full-size eight-and-a-half by eleven sheet, portrait layout, and the two of us filled the page. The sides of the original photo showing the car were cropped off.

But what really caused my gut to twist was what had been done to Stephanie. Mutilating Stephanie's face were dozens of slashing cuts with ragged edges, made with a razor blade or sharp knife.

Drawing in deep, slow breaths to fight the nausea and dizziness, I flipped the page over again. On the back in dark, angular printing was handwritten:

_**Do you miss her?**_

I steeled myself and picked up the phone. Alvirez first. He was out in the field but said he could be back in ten minutes. Then I called Tank, telling him to come into my office.

Tank arrived in short order and stood staring at the picture, then at the writing on the back when I flipped it over for him with my gloved hand.

Although the picture had knocked me for a loop, I was rapidly regaining my leadership demeanor and decisiveness.

"Team meeting in one hour," I said. "Up on seven."

Tank nodded and headed out the door to gather the troops. He turned back in the doorway. "Are you calling Morelli or should I?"

"I'll do it," I said. This development was going to create some problems. Morelli didn't like me, even though he'd been very cooperative since Stephanie's disappearance. But now he was going to know the culpability for this rested with me, and I might need to do a little damage control. Or a lot.

I slipped the photo back in the envelope and walked out of my office carrying it in one gloved hand and the tied-up trash bag from my wastebasket in the other. I dropped the bag in the big swing-top bin near the elevator as I passed it on my way to the stairs. I wasn't leaving any evidence of my weakness for my men to see.

Up in my apartment I dropped the envelope on the breakfast bar and went into the bathroom to rinse the vomit out of my mouth and brush my teeth. Coming back to the kitchen I dug in the back of the refrigerator, looking for the emergency can of Coke Stephanie thought I didn't know about. She'd left it here the last time she stayed with me, when she was under suspicion in her ex-husband's disappearance, and I hadn't gotten rid of it for some stupid, sentimental reason. I liked catching a glimpse of it unexpectedly every now and then. It reminded me of her, made me smile.

I needed sugar and caffeine, and the Coke would help settle my stomach and wash the bad taste out of my throat. And it made me feel connected to Stephanie.

I found the can and popped the top. I wanted to gulp it down, but I knew I had to take it easy on the sensitive condition of my stomach. I'd been scared in my life, many times, but I'd never before experienced such gut-wrenching helplessness.

I wondered for a moment if this was how Stephanie felt most of the time. Life just seemed to happen to her, and yet she rolled with the punches with incredible grace and adaptability. It gave me new respect for her capacity for coping with the vagaries of her life.

In just a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Alvirez.

He looked at the photo and envelope under a magnifying glass and put them into individual evidence bags. He had just under an hour until my men gathered, and he'd make full use of that time to examine and document the evidence before it was removed from our possession. I had no doubt whatsoever that Morelli would bring in the feebs now to take over the investigation.

Alvirez took the picture and envelope downstairs to his small lab to run some tests, and I settled onto the couch with the can of Coke, thinking about Stephanie. It felt like a knife was twisting in my gut, tearing out my intestines an inch at a time.

I was not only feeling fear for Stephanie and guilt for what she must be going through, but also an extreme sense of shame. I'd seldom felt stupid before, like an idiot, but I did now. What in hell had I been thinking? Whatever fooled me into believing that just by keeping my distance it would protect her?

I couldn't put it off any longer. I paged down until I found Morelli's cell number in my phone and punch the button to call him. He and I managed to get along, both of us in love with Stephanie and wanting to keep her safe, working together where necessary for her best interests. This new development was going to demolish the ceasefire and turn our uneasy truce into open warfare.

"Morelli," he answered tersely.

"It's Manoso. There's a new development. Meeting here at one-thirty."

"Something new since I left there three hours ago?"

"A picture in the mail."

"What picture?"

"It's a scan of the photo of Stephanie and me from the newspaper, from when her car blew up in the Foodtown lot."

"Yeah, so what?"

"There's writing on the back."

"What does it say?"

"Do you miss her?"

"That's all? Just 'do you miss her?'"

"And the photo is slashed with a knife or razor, right across her face."

"Fuck. I'll be right there. And I'm calling in the FBI."

I hung up, settled back on the couch and punched a familiar number into my phone.

_oOo_

**Chapter 9**

I stood up from the couch when Tank escorted Morelli into my apartment. It was the first time he'd been here, and I watched him glancing around surreptitiously, imagining, no doubt, the times Stephanie had stayed here. Twice. When the Slayers were after her, and during the whole Dickie fiasco when the asshole had let her go on believing she was under suspicion for murder when he knew all along Dickie was alive.

My mind went also to those times when Stephanie was here, and I wanted to kick myself for ever letting her go back to him. If I'd kept her with me, there's a good chance she'd still be here now.

"Where's the picture?" Morelli demanded, abandoning the inspection when he caught sight of me sitting on the couch.

"Alvirez is processing it," I responded, "downstairs. He'll be here in a minute."

"The TPD is taking over this case, in conjunction with the FBI," Morelli snapped, stomping over to me and aggressively invading my personal space. "From this moment on you are to immediately turn all evidence over to the official investigation. RangeMan is no longer involved and you can tell Alvirez that he's not authorized to run any tests or handle any evidence."

I'd anticipated and was prepared for this move on Morelli's part.

I kept my tone impassive and my face neutral. "Since it's apparent now that Stephanie was kidnapped in retaliation for acts I performed under the auspices of the federal government, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs is appointing a special task force for this investigation. It will consist of representatives from Defense, FBI, DEA, ATF, Homeland Security, and Trenton PD."

I hesitated a second for effect and then hit him with both barrels. "RangeMan is acting for Defense, and I've been named commanding officer of the task force."

Fury turned his face puce. "Goddamit," he shouted, his arms slashing the air, "who the fuck do you think you are? You can't just take over a kidnapping investigation."

"Morelli," I said, my voice low and deadly, "do _not_ think you can treat me the way you treat Stephanie, like some kind of a lower life form." His face turned even darker as I continued speaking. "You will be allowed to remain on this investigation only at my discretion. You will behave in a civilized and cooperative manner or you'll be off the team so fast your ass won't catch up with you until tomorrow. Any questions?"

His face was so purple I thought his head was going to explode. The vein in the center of his forehead stood out like a worm crawling up into his hair, his teeth were clenched, and the cords in his neck quivered.

"Joe," I said, softer, tempering the authority in my voice to calm him down a little, "the objective here is to find Stephanie. There's nobody better at this kind of thing than the group that will be assembling here. And there's nobody more qualified to lead them than me. You're a good cop, and you could be an asset to the investigation. It's up to you."

I could see him fighting for control and after a long internal struggle he nodded at me. "I don't like it, but I'll work with you for Stephanie." First battle won.

I nodded and sat back down as Alvirez entered the room with the evidence, followed by the rest of the RangeMan team. They settled into chairs and leaned against the walls.

"Dino, anything on the picture?" I asked Alvirez, waving at him to indicate he should pass the photo and envelope, protected by clear evidence bags, around the room.

"Nada, boss. No prints, no trace, no saliva on the flap. Ordinary kraft envelope, available anywhere. Kodak inkjet photo paper, also available anywhere. HP inkjet printer, common type, and no way to make a match to any specific printer the way you sometimes can with laser printers."

"Anybody have anything new since this morning?" I asked, looking around the room.

Negative head shakes all around.

"This changes the focus of our investigation, and we'll be concentrating on suspects connected with me in any way—through my military service, the work RangeMan has done, or any contract missions I've performed. We'll divide up suspects according to clearance levels."

I glanced at Morelli, who was sitting motionless, his face cop flat. "I've spoken with General Gordon, and he's appointing a federal task force. They'll all be here at 2100, and we'll hand out assignments. Until then continue what you were working on, and I'll see you all in the third floor conference room tonight. Any questions?"

Another round of negative responses and I nodded to indicate the meeting was over.

Morelli lingered behind as my men filed out. Tank was waiting by the door to escort him out of the building.

"Manoso, I just want you to know," Morelli said to me, "that I'm holding you personally responsible for Stephanie's kidnapping. If she's harmed in any way, you'll pay."

I stood and turned my back to him, walking into my bedroom and closing the door behind me. Nothing he said could make me feel any worse than I already felt. The nausea came bubbling back in spite of the Coke I'd had, and it was only by sheer force of will that I kept myself from vomiting again.

I dropped to my knees at the side of my bed, put my head down on my crossed arms, and for the first time in more years than I could remember, I prayed.

Stephanie had been gone fourteen days.

_oOo_

**Chapter 10**

_A week later—Friday, May 23_

The task force had been working nonstop for a week and the results were nil. And with every day that went by without a break in the case I felt sicker and sicker. I still couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and I pushed myself to the limit in the gym and with the investigation every day.

The situation was worse than the most difficult mission I'd ever undertaken. No matter how hard I tried to shut down my emotions, I couldn't turn off the overwhelming sense of guilt. After spending the whole week reviewing every heinous act I'd ever performed and every potential victim who might be seeking retribution, I could no longer compartmentalize. My military life had intersected my Trenton life with the force of a thermonuclear device and I was imploding, collapsing in on myself like a supernova forming a black hole.

"Focus on the goal, Soldier," I told myself two dozen times a day, but in truth I was a mess. The only consolation was that I thought I was hiding it pretty well. Only those closest to me, Tank, Lester, and Bobby, knew how hard I was taking Stephanie's kidnapping, what bad shape I was in.

At just after nine in the morning I was sitting in my office preparing for the task force meeting. My phone rang and I pulled it out, glancing at the caller ID. Sean Murphy, one of the two FBI agents on the team.

"Talk," I said succinctly.

"Ranger, we've got another one. We're on our way back with it." Murphy and his partner, Barbara Foster, had been picking up RangeMan's mail twice a day from the post office rather than letting the mail carrier bring it.

My heart gave a mighty jolt in my chest and then started a wild hammering.

"Bring it straight to the conference room," I said, fighting to keep my voice even. "I'll get Alvirez there to take custody of it for testing."

It was still more than a half hour until the task force meeting at ten o'clock. The fewer people that were there when I opened the envelope, the better. I didn't want the whole crowd watching me fighting to hide my distress.

I called Tank and Alvirez and the three of us walked together down to the third-floor conference room. It looked like someone was moving, boxes everywhere, all filled with files. The task force had created a mountain of paper, all of which had brought us not one step, not one iota closer to knowing who took Stephanie or where she was.

It would take about ten minutes for the FBI agents to arrive, and I couldn't force myself to sit down and wait. My stomach was clenched and my head felt like it was clamped in a vise, so I tried to relieve the tension by pacing back and forth the length of the conference room, thinking about the FBI agents.

Murphy and Foster were both from the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, the section dedicated to profiling and research on criminal behavior. Normally that department mobilized when there was evidence of a serial killer or an exceptionally horrendous crime, but they had been assigned to this case because of the military connection.

Murphy was a supervisory special agent, and looked as Irish as his name, with red hair and very pale skin, but an accent straight from South Boston. He was supposed to be one of the best in the world at finding the tenuous connections that might solve a case.

Foster was a slim, attractive forty-ish black woman with short, curly hair and impressive credentials, a profiler with PhDs in psychology, criminology and sociology. She had been professional yet very kind to me and had tried several times during the week to draw me into conversation.

She should have been afraid of me. She'd seen my military file, knew what I was, even though the graphic details of my missions weren't included. I'd done my best to scare her off with silence and coldness, but she wasn't easily discouraged.

Finally yesterday she caught me alone in my office and asked if it would help to talk about Stephanie. She was more than qualified as a shrink, and if I'd been inclined toward sharing my feelings she'd have been a good choice. But I had my fill of psychiatrists and psychologists during my military career.

I just gave her a noncommittal "No, thanks."

"If it would help to talk with someone from outside the task force, I have a friend from back in the day who's now a clinical psych professor at Penn. He's one of the best in the country. I could give him a call."

"No, thanks."

She extracted a business card from her leather portfolio and tucked it into the breast pocket of my t-shirt. "Well, if you change your mind, here's his information. I think you'd have a much better chance of successfully resolving your feelings if you could process your experiences with some professional guidance."

When I stripped my tee off late last night to shower and lie in bed not sleeping, I found the card. I held it over the trash can, and then, without really knowing why, pulled back and dropped it into the drawer of my nightstand.

After a few minutes of pacing and thinking, I noticed Tank was staring at me and I forced myself to sit, to clear my mind.

It seemed like an eternity before the FBI agents came striding in with serious faces. Murphy dumped a pile of mail on the conference table. Foster was holding a brown envelope in her gloved hands, and as soon as I had my gloves on she passed it to me.

It was identical to the one that had come last Friday, plain brown envelope, Trenton postmark, no return address, same computer-generated label.

It's just evidence, just a case. You can do this, soldier, I said to myself as I flipped the envelope over. Again, the flap wasn't glued shut. I bent the little metal clasp up and opened the top.

I hesitated, not wanting to see what the envelope held.

"Would you rather I did it?" Foster asked, soft and careful.

I ignored her, inhaled, braced myself and pulled out the contents.

_TBC_


	6. Chapters 11, 12 & 13

**Chapter 11**

It was another photograph, and I clenched every muscle in my body to keep my face blank and my stomach under wraps.

Stephanie… no, not Stephanie. The victim, the subject, the target… It's just another case, just another anonymous victim, I repeated to myself over and over again. Concentrate on the details, not on the woman.

A bare, shabby mattress covered by ancient ticking, dark blue and once white, now dingy brown stripes blotched with stains of various revolting hues…

Resting on the dusty boards of a rough wooden floor that had been painted brown but was now peeling and worn and pocked…

A patch of wall of an indeterminate neutral color, grimy and faded and decrepit…

A shackle around a bare ankle, a long chain extending out of the bottom corner of the frame…

Handcuffs binding bruised and scraped wrists behind the back, shoulders flexed, leaving the naked form exposed in spite of being curled on its side, knees to chest, tucked in fetal position…

Angry red welts speckling legs and torso, some kind of insect bites…

Multicolored bruises everywhere, visible eye swollen shut and black, lip split, dark dried blood below the nose, boot marks on the thighs and buttocks, dark fingerprint bruises on the side of the breast…

I closed my eyes, concentrating on nothingness, emptying my mind. But the picture was burned onto the inside of my eyelids.

I forced my eyes back open.

Wild, frizzy afro hair held away from the face by a rough hand…

The hand, analyze the hand. The first glimpse of our prey, the object of our investigation. My enemy…

Left hand. Light brown skin, race could be tanned white, Latino, light-skinned black, even possibly Asian.

Thick fingers with large knuckles crossed by deep lines. Not young, not old. Middle aged.

Broad hand with prominent veins and puckered, lighter pinkish skin forming a widening pathway from the back of the hand over the wrist and up the arm to the edge of the photo. Old burn scars.

The perp. Not a subordinate, I was certain of it, as certain as my conviction that he was somehow connected to my past.

I studied the photo for another moment, analyzing, not allowing myself to feel, and then flipped it over.

The same bold, black angular printing as the first photo.

_**I planned to kill her  
but this is much better**_

I stood so rapidly that my wheeled chair flew backwards and would have hit the wall if Tank, standing at my shoulder, hadn't caught it.

"Dino, take it to the lab. Find something," I said as I turned toward the door of the room, peeling off my gloves as I moved.

"Range-man," Tank said as I hit the doorway, gaining momentum. "Meeting in ten."

"Be right back," I answered from the hallway, barreling toward the stairwell and the cool, dim sanctuary of my apartment.

_oOo_

Fifteen minutes later I walked back into the conference room, my face expressionless, my hair wet. I'd adjusted the pulsating shower heads to maximum strength, letting the pounding of the scalding water work on my rigid muscles, scrubbing myself all over with a rough cloth, trying to wash away the anguish and guilt and fear.

I was late for the meeting, and I was _never_ late. And the instant I entered the room and saw the photograph filling the large monitor screen on the far wall, the feelings I'd hammered down in the shower came flooding back. I sank into my chair at the head of the table, fighting to maintain control and feeling a roomful of concerned eyes on me.

Exercising a Herculean effort to control my breathing and my emotions, I looked around the room.

Seated at the table were the primary task force members, Tank, Lester, and Bobby from RangeMan, Morelli representing TPD, the two FBI agents, Murphy and Foster. Other task force members included a small, dark Latino named Tomas Gonzalez from the DEA; ATF agent Bryant Simmons, young and scruffy, blonde and bearded, pulled in from an undercover assignment in Philly; and a useless, thirty-something Homeland Security woman named Eva Caterson. An empty armchair at the foot of the table awaited Alvirez when he was finished with the analysis.

In straight chairs around the perimeter of the room were the others from my initial RangeMan team: Manny and Zero, Hal and Ram, Vince and Woody.

"Report," I commanded, keeping my voice strong and low, not allowing the quaking I was feeling inside to escape the prison of my body.

Tank, at my right hand, began. "Dino has the photo. There are no prints, no trace. He'll analyze the paper and ink, but he's already ninety-nine percent sure they're identical to the first picture. He's looking at the envelope now."

Tank continued smoothly, seamlessly taking over control of the group. "Bobby, Lester and I have cleared another dozen or so potentials in the Middle East." He turned to Murphy on his right, raising an eyebrow.

"We've located and ruled out nine more subjects from the East Coast. We're working our way across the country and will be flying to Chicago tonight for a few days to look at some possibilities."

Gonzalez was next. "I've been interfacing with RangeMan Miami and briefed Raptor on the subjects who might be in the Southeast. He'll take care of locating and evaluating them." Raptor was Ramon Flores, managing partner in the Miami office and one of my longtime Special Forces brothers. I would trust him with my life. He was also one of the best trackers in the world, both in the wild and in civilized settings, with an uncanny ability to find fugitives. If we ever got any kind of slim lead, he'd be heading up the tracing effort.

Gonzales continued, "There are at least twelve subjects who are either confirmed or highly likely in South America. Colombia, Bolivia, Peru, one in Brazil. I'm leaving in a couple hours."

The shrill beep of the phone in the center of the conference table interrupted, making Caterson squeak and clutch her chest. Tank reached out a long arm and pulled it down to our end of the table, punching the speaker button.

"Talk," I commanded.

Alvirez's tinny voice echoed from the speaker. "I've got a print on the envelope."

_oOo_

**Chapter 12**

Hope fluttered in my chest like a hummingbird, tiny and erratic. "Is it in the system?" I demanded.

Alvirez responded, "Yes, it comes back to a postal worker, guy by the name of Frederick Hayes, mail carrier out of the main Trenton Distribution Center."

I was on my feet. "Dino, bag the envelope and bring it to the garage. Tank, Lester, Bobby, let's go."

"We're coming, too," Murphy interjected, jerking his head at Foster. "We can help cut through the red tape."

I gave a single nod of my head and hastened out the door.

_oOo_

The TPDC, Trenton Processing and Distribution Center, was a huge, warehouse-like structure in an industrial-commercial area of suburban Hamilton Township, just outside Trenton. Murphy and Foster's FBI credentials got us from the public access area into the administrative section, and directly to the office of the station manager, a rotund elf of a man with wisps of white hair sprouting above his ears.

His looks were deceiving, however. He spoke with authority and precision, and once he heard that we were investigating a kidnapping, he gave his full cooperation.

Twenty minutes after we arrived, we were seated in uncomfortable chairs at a government-issue conference table in a sparely furnished room. The door opened and the elf ushered in a heavyset middle-aged black man, introducing him as Frederick Hayes.

Foster's look was a request, and I gave her a small nod. She was black, a woman, and the least threatening person in the room. Although I really wanted to question him myself, it was probably best to save the intimidation factor until we caught all the flies we could with honey.

"Mr. Hayes," Foster began, rising and shaking his hand. "My name is Barbara Foster, and I'm an FBI agent."

She pulled out her ID and held it so he could read it while she introduced the rest of us. Murphy also showed his FBI ID, and I pulled out my military ID for an additional show of strength.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Hayes," Foster continued, waiting as he thudded down into a chair and then seating herself across the table from him. "We're looking into the kidnapping of a local woman from Trenton three weeks ago. We received a communication from the kidnapper and found your fingerprint on the envelope."

Hayes' eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "Yuh… you don't think I had anything to do with it, do you?"

"Did you?" My voice was harsh, causing Foster to shoot me a dagger-edged look.

Hayes turned his attention to me and his face paled noticeably in spite of the dark color of his skin. He swallowed, his throat muscles laboring. "N… N… No, sir."

"Mr. Hayes," Foster broke in, oozing kindness, drawing his attention back to her. "We have no reason to suspect you in the kidnapping. What we were hoping to find out from you is where you might have possibly handled this envelope."

She extended a hand and Lester passed her the plastic-enclosed brown kraft envelope. Hayes took the envelope and studied it, looking at the postmark, turning it over to look at the back. Alvirez had already lifted the print, but there were smudges of fingerprint powder remaining.

"It's postmarked the twenty-second, so I must have picked it up sometime during my route yesterday." Foster was tentative at first, but his voice gained confidence as he went on. "I drive a pickup route on weekdays starting at six a.m. and collect mail from fifty-two street boxes in the southern half of the city, from here to Market and Greenwood. Then I bring the mail in, break for lunch and do the same thing all over again. And that's my day."

"How many pieces of mail do you actually touch?" Foster asked.

"Well, since the whole anthrax thing we're supposed to wear gloves whenever we touch a piece of mail." Hayes cast a sideways glance at the elf and then continued, "But it's really uncomfortable wearing the gloves all day, so I don't usually bother. I never touch any letters anyway unless there's a piece that's falling out of the collection bin. I just pull the bin out of the box, empty it into the large crate in the back of my truck and put it back. Sometimes a piece will miss the bin and then I'll pick it up with my hand, but that doesn't happen too often, maybe only a couple times a week."

"Could you do me a favor, Mr. Hayes?" Foster asked. "Would you mind just closing your eyes for a minute and talking us through your route yesterday?"

"Ma'am, my route is the same every day, twice a day, five days a week for the past four years. I don't know how I can remember yesterday any different than the day before or the day before that."

"Could you just humor me? Please, sir?"

"Well, okay, I'll do my best," Hayes said, but he was shaking his head as he said it. I clenched my hands into fists under the table to keep myself from leaping up, grabbing his throat and shaking him until whatever might be in his subconscious came soaring out like a feathered shuttlecock for me to catch in my hands.

"Why don't you start by telling us about your morning? Anything unusual that happened, what you had for breakfast, whatever will take you back to yesterday."

Hayes leaned back as far as the awkward angle of the chair allowed and clasped his hands together on his substantial belly. Looking off into the distance beyond the far wall of the room he began.

"My wife and I had a fight yesterday morning. So I was in a bad mood all morning. And as if that wasn't bad enough, she called me on my cell phone while I was in the middle of my route to carp at me some more. She wants us to go visit our daughter and her family in California, and we just don't have the money to fly out there."

He heaved a sigh. "I was juggling my phone in one hand and trying to empty a box with the other and I ended up dropping the whole thing." His eyes focused on Foster. "I told my wife I had to go so I could pick up the mail off the ground. I bet that's how I touched that envelope."

I gripped the arms of my chair and started to rise, but Foster held a hand up to stop me. "Mr. Hayes, where was that box?"

"Corner of South Broad and Bridge."

Right on the edge of the Burg, and also convenient to downtown.

"Do you remember picking up an envelope like this one off the ground?"

"Well, there were all different sizes and types. There were several of those, I'm pretty sure."

I immediately started planning in my mind. We'd need to get surveillance on that box right away. And investigate the area, see if there were any businesses with security cameras that might show us the box. Interview the residents and businesses with views of the box to see if anyone saw the perp drop the envelope in.

I sat impatiently as Foster led Hayes through the rest of his day, with no more dropped mail, nothing more happening. Then I thanked him and asked the elf if we could remain in the conference room for a few minutes. I had orders to give.

Stephanie had been gone twenty-one days.

_oOo_

**Chapter 13**

_The next morning—Saturday, May 24_

I came very close to falling apart after the tension of Friday—the photo, the visit to the TPDC. Friday night I stayed in my office until the middle of the night, still going over mission files and dredging up the grim details, writing down what names I remembered. Around 0300 I headed up to the seventh floor for a shower and an attempt at sleep.

But the second my head hit the pillow the thoughts started roiling around in my brain, overwhelming me with memories of Stephanie and overlaying the things I did in defense of freedom, the people I killed, even tortured, for the good of my country. The real reason I could never have a relationship with Stephanie.

After our one night together I'd sent her back to Morelli, telling her my lifestyle didn't lend itself to relationships, letting her think it was because of the uncertainty of my schedule, the missions I still took on, even perhaps that I didn't really care enough for her. But that wasn't the real reason.

It was my past.

And not just fear that the enemies I've made might harm her.

I loved that she thought of me as a hero, as Batman. I didn't want her to know the truth, what I really was, what I've done. I couldn't stand to see the disappointment in her eyes. A weakness on my part, but Stephanie had a way of bringing out my vulnerabilities.

At 0500 I was up and out the garage entrance, running fast and hard, taking my ten-mile route at a punishing pace, trying to find a zone that would banish the wretchedness in my heart.

As I ran down Brunswick, for no real reason I found myself detouring onto Paul Avenue, slowing to a jog. By the time I passed the brick edifice of St. James Church I was walking. I continued past as far as the corner and then turned back. Without thinking, I walked up the front steps and tried the door.

Surprised to find it unlocked, I automatically dipped my fingers into the holy water in the font and crossed myself before stepping into the empty nave. Some things are so firmly ingrained in us from an impressionable age that they remain for the rest of our lives, no matter what else intervenes.

I hadn't entered a church other than for a couple of family weddings in twenty years, since I was sent to juvie at age fifteen. What I went through there destroyed the faith my parents took such pains to instill in me, and my years in the service further convinced me that hell certainly existed but heaven did not.

Until I met Stephanie. She brought light back into my life. Goodness was the best word I could think of to describe her aura. It radiated from her, shone from every pore. She cared about the people she came into contact with—her friends, her family, her skips, even people she didn't know. Even a surly, badass bounty hunter who had done things that would be inconceivable to her, that would have appalled her if she knew.

Yes, she knew about Abruzzi. But she didn't really _know._ She hadn't seen it happen, and I hadn't told her. He was pure evil, and he would have either killed her or damaged her irreparably if I hadn't taken him out. It may have been against the law, but I was a hundred percent certain it was the morally right thing to do. The world was a better place without Abruzzi in it, and Stephanie knew that.

Luckily Stephanie had a great capacity for denial. Abruzzi's torture of her might have destroyed her, but she was rescued in time and managed to banish it from her mind. By the time her burn healed, the horror of the experience was pushed so far back into her subconscious that it would likely never emerge.

While thinking about Stephanie I wandered to the side of the church, where there was a small chapel with a shrine to the blessed Virgin. A single candle burned in the rows of prayer candles, probably lit by whoever had unlocked the church so very early this morning. The priest, perhaps, praying for grace in the day ahead.

I dropped to the kneeler, automatically reciting to myself, Hail Mary, full of grace… I lit a candle for Stephanie and knelt there, head down, mind emptied, opening my heart and reaching out for something tenuous, ethereal—God, Stephanie, I didn't know what.

Please God, please God, I prayed over and over and over again, like a mantra.

My heart felt like a clenched fist in my chest, and I lit another candle.

Please God, please God…

I remained still, and for the first time since my childhood I was completely unaware of my surroundings, with no concept of the passage of time.

I was brought back to awareness by my phone vibrating in the pocket of my running pants. As I reached blindly for it I realized my face was wet with tears and every single candle in front of me was lit.

I glanced at the phone display. Tank. I flipped it open. "Talk," I said quietly, not wanting to disturb the silence of the church.

"Boss, got the overnight reports. Nothing."

"Okay. I'll be back in a half hour."

As I closed the phone I looked at the display again, wondering what time it was. 0714. I'd been here for almost two hours.

As I creaked to my feet on stiff knees I reached into another pocket and pulled out the folded bills I always carried, even when running. I was never without several hundred dollars in cash, prepared for anything. I peeled a hundred off the roll and dropped it into the donation box, using my forearm to swipe the tears from my cheeks.

Just before I turned toward the door, I shoved the rest of the bills into the box.

Stephanie had been gone twenty-two days.

_TBC_


	7. Chapters 14, 15 & 16

**Chapter 14**

_Five days later—Thursday, May 29_

"Have you reconsidered talking with someone?" Foster had lingered behind as she and Murphy were leaving to get the mail, and she bestowed a sympathetic look upon me. "I think it would help you."

"Don't worry about me. Worry about doing your job," I growled at her. I know she was trying to help, but I didn't need her sympathy. I needed to find Stephanie.

And that wasn't happening.

After my virtual meltdown in the church on Saturday morning I actually started to feel a little bit better. For a few days I was able to eat a small portion of the bland, easy-on-the-stomach meals Ella made for me. I even managed several hours of sleep a couple of nights. But as the week wore on, I backslid.

Every clue, every possibility had petered out. There was nothing left except the mailbox.

We'd had twenty-four hour surveillance on the box for the entire six days, just in case, using a telephoto lens to take high-resolution digital pictures of every person that dropped a piece of mail in, as well as photographing the few vehicles that stopped. We also mounted miniaturized cameras on a dozen more mailboxes in the blocks surrounding South Broad and Bridge Streets, with feed to the control room.

Tonight it would be four weeks since Stephanie disappeared.

This morning I had a stack of paperwork from Tank. Contracts to sign, letters to okay, proposals to review. The work of RangeMan went on, whether I was involved or not. When I went away on a mission I left Tank a durable power of attorney authorizing him to act for me in all matters, even if I should become incapacitated. But as long as I was in Trenton, even though Tank was running the business I signed my own contracts.

I'd been plowing through paperwork for almost an hour when there was a tap on my office door.

"Come in," I called, watching the door as it opened, the slowness of it a portent.

Foster. And I didn't like the look on her face.

Or the glove on her right hand as she pushed the door open.

My stomach gave a lurch.

"I opened it," she said without prelude. "Alvirez is on his way down with evidence bags, but I knew you wouldn't want to wait to see it."

I yanked a pair of gloves out of my desk drawer. I'd gotten a box of them from the supply room after the first envelope arrived, wanting, no, _needing_ to be prepared.

Foster was holding the envelope in her left hand down at her side, partially blocked by her body. I could see she had opened it, but the picture was shielded by the envelope.

Mutely I held out a gloved hand, keeping my face blank. From the look on her face and her bearing I knew it was going to be bad. Dear God, give me the strength to endure it, whatever it is.

She wordlessly handed them to me.

The back of the photo was toward me, the front facing the envelope. I wanted to close my eyes and scream, but I looked down at the bold printing.

_**I could not resist  
that beautiful  
white skin.**_

I clenched my teeth, tightened my jaw and flipped the photo over.

I couldn't repress a flinch when I saw the red lash marks all over her back and buttocks.

Stephanie… no, the victim… was on her knees, naked, handcuffed arms chained high above her head, stretching her upward. A hand, his hand, held her head by the hair, pulling it to the side so her face was revealed to the camera.

She was in partial profile, but her eyes were clearly visible. Although the lids were drooping I could see they were hugely dilated, almost all pupils. Coupled with the slackness of her face and slumped posture, that indicated drugs of some type, perhaps rohypnol or ketamine, the date-rape drugs. Given in small doses, she would remain semi-conscious but be submissive and unfeeling. Please, God, let her not have known what was happening to her.

I realized Foster's hand was on my shoulder and I shrugged away from her. I knew she was trying to be supportive, to comfort me, but I wasn't about to give in to weakness. If I fell apart I'd be no good to Stephanie.

I concentrated on the whip marks. This wasn't the first time I'd seen something like that.

There was a tap on the partly open door and Alvirez looked in.

"Here, Dino," I said holding the evidence out to him. "Task force meeting in a half hour. If you're not done we can conference you in."

I turned to Foster and spoke decisively. "Pull in everyone who's in Trenton. I need a few minutes to think about this, to access the file and try to recall the details. Conference room at ten hundred."

As she stepped out of my office and shut the door behind her I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

El Látigo. The Whip.

Santiago Torres was a drug lord with major resources in both Bolivia and Peru. A Bolivian national, he clawed his way up the production pyramid to become the second or third in command in the drug trade infrastructure for the whole central part of the South American continent.

He was a sadist of the worst kind, and got his rocks off whipping prostitutes. Hence the name. El Látigo.

That was how we finally located him, following the trail of victims to his palace in the jungle. Thinking back now on the way we'd finally gotten him to talk made me feel sick. But back then in that part of the world I was known as "El Trucidor." The killer, but not just any killer. It was from the Latin _trucido_, to kill cruelly, slay, butcher, massacre, slaughter. The Butcher. I was trained to do whatever it took to complete my mission.

We got the information we needed and left him in his palatial home, setting charges and blowing the place to kingdom come. Nobody could have survived the blast.

Could they?

I pulled out my phone and pressed speed dial.

"What's up?" the voice came.

"I need you to go to La Paz, immediately. I'm sending the jet. It'll be at Kendall in four hours."

"Good to go, boss."

_oOo_

**Chapter 15**

The task force was convened in the conference room. I looked around, feeling real hope for the first time in four long weeks. Finally, something I could get my teeth into.

I addressed the assembly.

"This latest picture has given us a lead that we need to chase down as quickly as possible." I gestured to the large monitor on the wall showing the picture. It was still as horrific as my first glimpse of it, but now I had an idea, something to run with. Even if it turned out to be a false lead, I thought, my stomach rolling at the possibility, at least for the moment I was back on my game.

"The operation that I'm going to tell you about was classified to the max, but I've spoken with General Gordon and he's given me special dispensation for the purposes of this task force in this investigation only. You're all covered by the secrecy agreements you've signed, and you can't disclose this matter to _anyone_."

I proceeded to give them a brief overview of the mission and El Látigo, leaving out the most disturbing details.

DEA agent Gonzalez had just returned from South America with a three-day growth of beard and red, bag-laden eyes. He gaped at me. "That was you?" he asked, his eyes brightening with curiosity. "That operation is a legend in DEA lore. A lot of people believe it's a myth."

"There was nothing mythical about it," I answered in a tone that brooked no more questions. "We thought the subject had died in the explosion, but that photo is almost identical to the position we found one of the prostitutes in during the mission. The damage there was similar, although considerably greater. El Látigo held her captive for nearly two months, keeping her drugged. He whipped her every day and raped her afterward."

There was a sound from Morelli. I looked at him and he refused to meet my eyes, his face as empty as he could make it. I knew it was killing him. It was killing me, too, but there was enough evidence there to keep my mind on the mission, my eye on the prize.

"She was barely alive when we found her, but her information was the key to locating him. Now that he's started this pattern with Stephanie, it's imperative that we find her immediately."

And we will, I reassured myself. We have to. Any other outcome is unacceptable.

I continued, "I've already got Raptor on his way to Bolivia. He'll go into the jungle and find out what happened. It's hard to believe anyone could have survived that blast, but it's remotely possible. If there's any trace of him, even any rumors, Raptor will find out."

I looked around the table and met each pair of eyes resolutely. "As of this moment, every single resource we can muster will be concentrated on Santiago Torres. This is the most we've had in four weeks, and we're going to follow this lead until we find the truth. Until we find Stephanie."

I looked down the table at Murphy and Foster. "Sean, Barbara, how does this new information affect your profile?"

Murphy began. "Based on what you've just told us about Torres, he's exhibiting the classic symptoms of sexual sadism, building sexual excitement through whipping his victims and then obtaining release by raping them. The fact that he drugs them indicates that it is the act of whipping itself that excites him, and not a pain response on their part. It's possible that the screaming and struggling of a fully-conscious victim would interfere with his enjoyment, and therefore he keeps them in a state of partial consciousness."

Foster took over. "Most sexual sadists are between the ages of 25 and 40. After the age of 40 the libido drops off and the need for sadistic release decreases. Since according to the records Torres would be 48 now, the fact that he's doing this to Stephanie is likely more a matter of revenge than for sexual release."

Murphy again: "The typical sexual sadist is very macho and wants to dominate his victims. It's all about power, exerting it over others and avoiding having it exerted over himself. The very worst thing for this type of perp is to be dominated."

That helped explain El Látigo's need for revenge. My team had seriously dominated him to obtain the information we needed to break up the drug business in that part of the world, and I had been in command. He resisted, but we eventually found the one thing that broke him down and forced him to tell us everything we wanted to know. He would have particular reason to hate me.

"It's apparent that Torres uses an escalating pattern," Foster went on. "He keeps his victims alive for lengthy periods to be used over and over again, but he needs more and more violence to satisfy him. Therefore the whippings begin lightly, and over weeks get harder and harder until the victim eventually dies."

She looked directly at me. "I believe we're seeing a sign of escalation right now as evinced by the timing of the photos. The first photo came two weeks after he took the victim. The second was a week later, and the third, six days. I believe the next one will be even sooner, perhaps four or five days."

She looked around the room. "Everyone needs to give their utmost efforts to finding the victim quickly, before it's too late."

There were nods and murmurs of assent all around the table.

"Thank you," I said, standing up and leaning forward with both hands flat on the table to address the group. "Each one of you has an essential role in this investigation, and failure is not an option."

I began issuing orders.

Stephanie had been gone twenty-seven days.

_oOo_

**Chapter 16**

_Five days later—Tuesday, June 3_

I collapsed into bed and was asleep in fifteen seconds. I'd been a tornado of activity since the third photo arrived, commanding the team, studying files, calling contacts.

After a day and a half in Bolivia, Raptor had called to report unconfirmed rumors of El Látigo surviving the blast and going to Lima, Peru for medical treatment. All of this had taken place more than ten years previously, but there were still many people in the area who remembered El Látigo, his wealth and his cruelty. A small plane was spotted taking off from the landing strip at his decimated mansion the day after the explosion and the legend grew that he would one day return to terrorize women and small children.

Raptor followed the trail to Lima and there found archived medical treatment records for a Sancho Garcia. He arrived the day after the explosion in the jungle and was in the hospital for four weeks suffering from burns and multiple broken bones.

Garcia was released to a convalescent home where he stayed for several months. There was a nurse still working there that remembered Garcia because of a scandal associated with him. He connected with a mousy little aide who enjoyed being hurt. She was fired, but the nurse was quite sure Garcia had married her a short time later.

Through her family Raptor traced the couple to Mexico City. I flew down to help him look, but El Látigo had left there four years ago. We found an elderly neighbor who confirmed from an ancient Bolivian military photo that Sancho Garcia was Santiago Torres.

We arrived in Miami in the pre-dawn hours of Tuesday morning and I managed three good hours of sleep in my bed in the penthouse apartment. Since I was already here I planned to spend the morning taking care of business before going back to Trenton and the task force.

My refrigerator had been stocked with some basics, and I made myself a scrambled egg and a piece of whole wheat toast. I hadn't been hungry since Stephanie disappeared, but the frenetic activity of the past five days helped diminish the ever-present nausea and I managed to get enough food down to keep going.

I looked hard at myself in the bathroom mirror as I yanked on my usual black cargoes and t-shirt, tightening my belt to take in the looseness of the clothes. I looked like a different person than I had five weeks ago, gone from wrestler to runner. I'd lost at least thirty pounds, turning my formerly pumped-up body into lean sinew and ropy muscles.

The dark circles under my eyes had turned to permanent pouchy bags, making me look ten years older, closer to forty-five than my thirty-five years. My deadpan face was etched with deep lines.

But the most noticeable change was my hair. The formerly almost-black mane was now streaked with gray. I looked like my father.

I'd never been vain about my looks, but I'd always known I had them. They were as much a part of me as my personality, and I'd used them my whole adult life to help me get what I wanted or needed, from information to sexual release.

Stephanie was the only woman I'd met who wasn't instantly attracted to me. Oh, but I was attracted to her. She had that indefinable incandescence, that light.

When I thought she and the cop were getting serious I pulled out all the stops, and she noticed me then. But she still resisted. I teased her with innuendo and touches and kisses until she finally gave in.

That night together was so powerful, meant so much to me that I made the most stupid mistake of my life and sent her back to the cop. I talked myself into believing that life with me would be too dangerous for her when the truth was, I was afraid she'd discover my dirty secrets. I knew if she found out what I was, the things I've done, she could never love me. Her goodness just wouldn't be able to comprehend my evil.

I shook my head and walked out of the bathroom and down the stairs to my office.

Stephanie had been gone thirty-two days.

_oOo_

At 0800 I spent twenty minutes on the phone with the task force, most of them still in Trenton. They'd followed every possible avenue, unraveling even the most miniscule threads, trying to find a trace of El Látigo. They'd come up with zip, zilch, nada, and nothing.

I rubbed both hands over my face in frustration as I hung up the phone. How could a team comprised of some of the best law enforcement agents in the country spend almost three weeks on a case and come up with nothing at all?

I turned my attention to the pile of papers in front of me. My concentration was shot to hell these days, but I forced myself to read and sign.

An hour later my phone rang and I glanced at the caller ID. Raptor.

"Talk," I ordered, my voice flat. I might be falling apart, but I wasn't dead yet and as long as I had breath I was going to hold it together. Even if it killed me.

"Boss, you better come down to the front desk." Raptor's voice was as flat as mine.

"What is it?" I just wanted to get through these papers and get on the jet back to Trenton.

"We have an envelope here addressed to you."

_TBC_


	8. Chapters 17, 18 & 19

**Chapter 17**

Another envelope. My heart contracted into a knot, emanating pains that radiated to my neck and upper arm. Oh, God, not another one. I didn't think I could bear it.

I clenched my teeth to curb my emotions and jogged down the three flights of stairs to the lobby. Clustered around the reception desk I found Raptor, Silvio Bonani and Will Metzgar, the whole Miami management team. They were staring with rapt attention at a brown kraft envelope lying on the desk, as if it were a deadly snake about to strike.

Behind the desk in a high-backed leather chair sat Warren Davidson, a white-haired Special Forces veteran who manned the reception area on weekdays. In spite of his age, pushing sixty, he still passed his RangeMan proficiency test with ease every year and was a crack shot. Sitting in a wheeled desk chair next to Warren was a Latino boy around ten years old with straight dark hair and saucer-wide brown eyes. He was barefoot and wearing a faded Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt and baggy canvas shorts.

"Rico, this is Ranger, the guy I was telling you about," Warren said to the boy. "Ranger, this is Federico Ortega. He lives with his mother in an apartment above the deli down the street."

I tried to make my face open and friendly, squatting down to the boy's level and holding out my right hand for a handshake. "Hi, Rico. I'm very pleased to meet you."

"Hi, Mr. Ranger," said Rico, shaking my hand. "Are you really the boss of this whole building?"

I smiled at him, trying not to grimace at the thought of what was in that envelope on the desk. "I try, Rico, but these guys don't always listen to me."

Actually, every man in the building obeyed my orders without question, but I didn't want to scare the boy. It was clear they wanted me to meet him for a reason.

I continued in as pleasant a manner as I could summon up. "How come you're not in school today?"

"We got out last week. It's summer vacation."

"I bet you're happy about that."

Rico couldn't suppress a grin as he nodded.

Warren spoke up. "Rico brought me that envelope that's on the desk. He said a man in front of the deli gave him five dollars to bring it down here and drop it off."

"Is the man still out there?" I was twitching with eagerness to go after him.

Warren answered, "No sign of him, sir. Rico and I already checked. But he was right in front of the deli and the jewelry store across the street has security cameras outside. We might be able to see something."

"Did you see where the man came from?" I asked Rico.

"He came around the corner from 3rd Street. I didn't see if he had a car or anything. He was walking when I saw him."

"Can you tell me what he looked like?"

"He was pretty old. He had gray hair and brown skin, but not black. Kinda like yours or his," he indicated Raptor, whose coloring is just a shade lighter than my own, but with more red, proclaiming his Native American ancestry.

"How old, do you think? As old as Warren?" I tipped my head at Davidson. "As old as one of these guys?" I waved an arm around at Raptor, Silvio, and Will. "As old as me?"

Rico considered, studying each of us. "He had gray hair like you, only a lot shorter, but his face looked older. But not as old as Warren."

"What was he wearing?"

"Tan shorts with lots of pockets and a short-sleeved shirt, kinda red and brown plaid, tucked in."

"Excellent powers of observation," I said, and a smile of pride crossed Rico's face.

"What else did you notice about him? Any tattoos or scars or big hairy moles?"

Rico grinned at that last one, but rapidly sobered. "His skin on his arms and legs looked kinda funny. It was lighter in some spots and sort of wrinkly, not like old people wrinkles, but like there was something wrong."

Burn scars. El Látigo. He's here. The energy was buzzing through me, the thrill of getting close.

"Did he hand you the envelope with his bare hands?" I asked, dragging myself back from a vivid vision of gutting El Látigo and pulling his entrails out with my bare hands.

"His hand looked funny, all smooth and pale."

"Could it have been a clear glove? You know, the kind doctors and nurses sometimes wear?"

"Yeah, it coulda been a glove. It probably was. But not like the doctor wears. His are kinda white, not see-through. This one was see-through. And it was only on one hand. He was holding the envelope and the 5 bill together in that hand."

"Where is the 5 bill?" I asked.

Rico started to reach in his pocket.

"No!" I snapped, sharper than I intended. I gentled my voice. "Sorry, Rico, didn't mean to yell. But we only want to handle the 5 bill with gloves so we don't cover up any fingerprints that might be on it."

By this time a couple of men had come down from the office with a box of latex gloves and several clear evidence bags. I pulled a glove out of the box and offered it to Rico.

"Would you like to put a glove on to take the money out of your pocket? I'd be glad to trade you that five-dollar bill for this." I pulled my money clip out of my pocket and peeled off a hundred.

"Wow," Rico breathed, his saucer eyes growing to dinner plates as he looked at the money. "I've never seen a hundred dollar bill before. Wait 'till I show my mom!"

Rico pulled the large glove over his small hand, struggling to get his fingers in the right holes. When he pulled the bill from his pocket I held open an evidence bag for him to drop it into.

"You did really well, son," I said, handing him the hundred. "I'm going to give you a card with my phone number and if you think of anything about the guy that you didn't tell me you can call."

I handed him a card and he grinned again as he shoved it in his pocket with the money. "Thanks, Mr. Ranger," he said.

"Warren will take you home now and explain to your mom what happened. Glad to meet you, Rico, and when you get a little bigger come on back and I'll give you a job."

I watched them go out the door and turned back to the envelope, which the guys had placed in a plastic evidence folder.

"Schedule a meeting of everyone on shift for 1100 hours," I instructed, "and have someone go get the security tapes from the jewelry store."

I grabbed the envelope and headed at double-time for the stairs.

_oOo_

**Chapter 18**

I locked myself into my office and pulled on the gloves that were stuffed in my pocket. To my relief nobody had followed me up the stairs. I needed to do this alone.

I slid the brown envelope out of the evidence bag and sucked in a deep breath through my nose as I opened the clasp. I knew it was going to be bad. Each picture had been worse than the previous one, escalating, as Foster would say, and this one would be the worst yet. I said a prayer for Stephanie as I pulled out the picture. Please, God…

This one was in the envelope face down, so the first thing I saw was that forceful black printing.

_**She thought you were  
a hero. I showed her  
what you did to my family**_

My heart was trying to pound its way through my ribcage as I flipped over the photo.

Oh, God.

I was looking directly into Stephanie's eyes, huge and brilliant blue, with tiny pinpoint pupils. Drugged. Some type of narcotics, most likely.

She was on her hands and knees on that same stained mattress, her head forced back by his left hand buried in her hair, her mouth slack and hanging open.

There were fresh whip marks on what I could see of her back and shoulders, crisscrossing the partially healed ones from the last photograph. I looked carefully, trying to discern how many times she had been whipped, but only her shoulders and a small portion of her back were visible. I couldn't tell.

Her breasts were hanging down, white and pristine, no whip marks there. Yet.

Her weight was resting on her hands, cuffed at the wrists, and I finally brought my eyes to her arms to view what I knew would be there. Cigarette burns. Six on one upper arm, and one on the other. Angry bloody red-black circles, just beginning to scab over.

He was visible from the waist down standing close behind her, his feet on each side of her knees. He was wearing brown cotton pants, but I couldn't tell whether they were open and he was fucking her or he just had his groin pressed against her ass.

His right hand was at his side holding a slender black leather switch, and the burn scars streaked lighter pinkish patches up his brown arm. On the hand holding the whip was a gold ring. It was in semi-profile, but I could tell it contained a large onyx with a diamond set into the center. The sight of it catapulted me back in time, and I remembered that he wore it always, was wearing it when we left him to die in the explosion.

No question. El Látigo.

And he was here. In Miami.

I felt like screaming, like crying, like jumping out of my skin. We were oh-so-close, and yet still so far. But I was pumped to have new information, to know he was so near.

I picked up my phone and called the task force number that rang directly into the conference room at RangeMan Trenton.

"RangeMan," came the pleasant, contralto voice. Foster.

"Put me on speaker," I commanded.

"Okay, boss, done," came Tank's deep, echoing rumble.

"Who's there?" I demanded.

Tank answered. "Almost all of us. Murphy, Foster, Gonzales, Simmons, Bobby, Lester, Manny, Zero, Alvirez. Hal and Ram are out checking the mailbox cameras and replacing batteries. Vince and Woody are taking a surveillance shift on the mailbox at South Broad and Bridge. Don't know where Morelli and Caterson are."

Since most of our task force members were paired up, with the exception of Gonzalez from DEA and ATF agent Simmons, who were both used to working alone, Caterson had attached herself to Morelli. She was an attorney, almost useless, a political appointee to Homeland Security, and primarily interested in covering their asses, just in case.

Morelli had been a good sport about it, taking her along when he was following up leads and giving her lessons in investigative techniques. It helped that she was quite attractive and very sympathetic to Morelli's pain, more than willing to help him put the kidnapping of his girlfriend out of his mind for a few hours.

And after the third picture arrived, I suspected Morelli was letting her.

The silence stretched for a long moment and then I broke it. "I've got another picture."

Pandemonium in Trenton.

Tank's voice broke through the cacophony, urging everyone to shut up. "Foster first."

Foster's voice came through. "How did you get the picture?"

"It was hand delivered to the front desk by a little boy from down the street. El Látigo gave him five dollars to bring it in."

"How do you know it's Torres?" she asked.

"From the boy's description, and from the ring on his hand in the photograph."

"Describe the photo."

I gave them a precise description, right down to the position of the cigarette burns, and read them the words from the back. "I'll have it scanned and emailed in a few minutes. You should all go pack. The jet will be at Trenton-Mercer in three hours."

I was waiting for Foster to ask me about the cigarette burns, but she didn't.

"Any chance of getting his picture from your security cameras?"

"Not from ours. He was too smart to get in range. But there's a jewelry store right across from where he found the boy. I've got men there now looking at the tapes."

Alvirez's voice came through. "Did you get the money from the boy?"

"Yes, it's in the lab here being processed."

Silence.

"Anything else?" I asked, impatient, wanting to move, needing to do something.

"Anyone?" I heard Tank say. "No, boss. We'll see you there late afternoon."

I snapped my phone shut, shoved the photo and envelope into the evidence bag and headed for the lab.

Stephanie had been gone thirty-two days.

_oOo_

**Chapter 19**

_That evening_

The largest conference room at the Miami office wasn't as big as the one at Trenton, and with the task force plus about a dozen added Miami men we were shoulder to shoulder.

On the large, flat-screen monitor mounted on the end wall were two different greatly enlarged, poor-quality photos of El Látigo taken from the jewelry store surveillance video. Silvio had enhanced them using every possible technique, and they were recognizable to me. I hoped they were good enough to be recognized by someone who had seen him in passing.

Next to El Látigo was a better-quality enlargement of the ring on the hand holding the whip from the inkjet printout, plus a closeup of Stephanie's face from a photo I had of her in my apartment.

Raptor passed out copies of all four photos and assignments for the evening. We were going to try to cover every bar and strip joint in the Latino sections of the city, showing the photos to bartenders and patrons, trying to get a fix on El Látigo's location.

There were seven teams of two from the original task force, counting Tank and me, with Gonzalez and Simmons paired together. There were an additional five teams from RangeMan Miami.

Conspicuously absent were Morelli and Caterson. Neither of them answered their phones until the jet was already in the air, so they were flying commercial out of Newark, scheduled to arrive at Miami International at 2300.

According to Morelli they'd been knocking on doors within view of the corner of South Broad and Bridge, re-interviewing everyone and hoping to catch someone at home who'd seen the second envelope dropped into the mailbox. An exercise in futility, but sometimes plodding legwork turns up the information that breaks a case.

"It must have been a dead spot in the cell grid," Morelli said when I finally reached him.

Yeah, right. I prayed for Stephanie's sake he was telling the truth.

Armed with photos as well as our guns and knives, Tank and I set off in an SUV to mingle with the scum and the bottom feeders.

_oOo_

_Two days later— Thursday, June 5_

"Task force meeting at eleven hundred," I said to Tank as we trudged wearily back up the stairs at the office. The dawn light slanted across our faces, making us squint and throwing gruesome shadows that exaggerated and distorted Tank's features. I imagined I looked even worse.

Another new day. We'd spent two full nights, more than ten hours each night, going from bar to bar, strip joint to club, showing our pictures to patrons and bartenders. The other teams, twelve of them once Morelli and Caterson finally arrived, were canvassing as well, checking in with Alvirez in the control room at regular intervals. From early evening until the 0500 closing time for the entertainment district we pounded the pavement.

Nothing.

Everyone else was tired too, heading back to their quarters for a few hours sleep before the 1100 meeting. Like Trenton, the Miami office had one floor of apartments for employees. I'd moved several Miami employees out to temporary housing and doubled up to squeeze all the team members from RangeMan Trenton into the small apartments.

I offered the two women, Foster and Caterson, efficiency apartments in the building as well, and had taken a block of rooms in a Holiday Inn Express a short distance from the office to house the rest of the task force. Foster accepted the RangeMan apartment. Caterson preferred to stay in the hotel with the other Feds. And Morelli.

Wednesday morning, the day after the fourth picture arrived, I ordered five thousand posters and temporary staff to paper the city with them. The posters showed two pictures of Stephanie, the one from my apartment and one pulled from the Trenton security cameras, plus the two shots of El Látigo and the close-up of his ring.

I was offering a ten thousand dollar reward for information leading to the location of either of them. I was going to make it more, but Foster had lectured me on the added danger it could cause Stephanie if the gangbangers and drug dealers knew how valuable she was to me. Someone might kidnap her from the kidnapper and hold her for ransom. She convinced me, so I went with the ten big ones.

Six men from the RangeMan Miami staff were on call day and night to follow up any leads that were phoned in from the posters. There were surprisingly few of them.

It was an effort to keep from dragging my feet as I walked into my apartment. I badly needed a shower. My eyes were gritty and I felt grubby from the hours spent slogging through the squalor of the downtrodden neighborhoods, talking with the desperate people.

I set my watch alarm to wake me at 1030 and collapsed into bed for a few short hours of restless, dream-filled sleep. Stephanie haunted my dreams, as she had ever since her disappearance. The moment sleep overtook me she'd be with me, whimpering with fear and sobbing with pain, suffering every atrocity I'd ever committed. I woke up sweating and gasping, my heart pounding, my eyes tearing.

Or, just as bad, she'd be naked and wrapped around me, making love to me and crying out my name as she came. I'd awaken with a throbbing erection, or ejaculating in my boxers, and the realization that she wasn't really there was shattering, every single time.

But this morning I didn't even get the three hours of fitful sleep that I'd anticipated. I jerked to alertness at the vibration of my cell phone on the nightstand. Everyone on the task force had been out all night, and they all should be sleeping.

I grabbed the phone and flipped it open, clearing the hoarseness from my throat. "Talk," I ordered.

It was Raptor. "Another one, boss. They're on their way up with it."

_TBC_


	9. Chapters 20, 21 & 22

**Chapter 20**

I yanked on cargoes and a t-shirt and detoured through the kitchen to flip the switch on the coffee pot, already filled and ready to brew.

As I stepped out of my apartment door into the hallway, Raptor emerged from his apartment, the mirror image of mine. He was rapidly braiding his long, black hair, tying it off with a piece of twine. We stood silently watching the numbers flash above the elevator door as it ascended.

The stainless-steel doors swooshed open to reveal Tank and a gloved Alvirez holding the now-familiar brown envelope and a couple of plastic evidence bags.

Nobody said a word as we entered my apartment and clustered around the dining room table. I sat down at one end, not trusting my legs to support my weight, and Alvirez laid the envelope in front of me, handing me a pair of gloves from his pocket.

As I pulled the gloves on and reached for the envelope I heard the door open. Foster appeared, wearing sweats and sneakers. She moved in behind me, a hand settling on my shoulder. I didn't have the energy to shrug it off. Maybe I needed her strength, her objectivity.

All my concentration was on the envelope in my hands, fixating on the minutiae to avoid thinking about what was inside. It was identical to the previous four, no return address, same label except addressed to the Miami office. Like the three that came to Trenton it had stamps on it. The postmark was Miami, yesterday.

Each movement took an extraordinary effort, like trying to run underwater, everything in slow motion. My fingers fumbled with the clasp.

And then, all too soon, it was open.

I slid the single sheet of inkjet photographic paper out of the envelope. Again it was face down so the writing was revealed first.

_**I am finished with her.  
Kiss her adios.**_

My heart, already slamming against my chest wall, clenched and skipped a beat.

I flipped the paper over.

Stephanie… The victim… was lying on her back, naked and limp, splayed out on the ancient, stained mattress. Her face was flaccid, eyes almost but not quite closed, mouth hanging open slackly. She wasn't restrained in any way, no cuffs or shackles, although scabs and bruises encircled her wrists and ankles where they had been.

Angry red insect bites still spotted her legs and torso. The cigarette burns showed on her upper arms. But this time the lesions looked almost insignificant compared to the red lash marks that striped her from shoulders to ankles.

I had to close my eyes for a moment.

Forcing them back open I repeated to myself, look at the details. The answer is in the details.

There was a rubber tourniquet draped across her left upper arm, with a puckered red band showing where it had recently cinched her. There were track marks on the inside of her elbow, some partially healed and one obviously fresh, a dark drop of blood beaded just below it. A used syringe lay on the mattress next to her, as if it had been dropped there after the injection.

She was either unconscious or dead.

I couldn't hold back the sound that came out of me. It was somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Foster's hand tightened on my shoulder.

"This changes nothing," I rasped out. "Task force meeting at eleven."

Tank and Raptor both acknowledged me with almost imperceptible nods. Alvirez bagged the picture and envelope in silence. As the three made their way out of the apartment I crossed my arms on the table and rested my head on them. I needed a few minutes to process and plan.

Foster's hand left my shoulder. I heard her pull out the chair to my left and sit down.

Silence.

I couldn't think, couldn't function with her sitting there studying me like some kind of insect pinned live and squirming under a microscope, like a frog cut open in science class, still-beating heart exposed for all to observe. She was probably planning her next scholarly paper, "The Physiological and Psychological Effects of Extreme Stress on the Alpha Male," or some such bullshit.

I raised my head and focused all the malevolent intensity of my alter-ego El Trucidor, the Butcher, on her. I retained enough of his evil emptiness to make her shrink back in her chair.

"Get out," I intoned, hollow and barren.

Without a word she rose and scuttled out the door.

I laid my head back down and began to formulate a plan.

_oOo_

"This changes nothing," I reiterated to the full task force an hour later in the conference room. "We continue with the legwork until we find her. Or him. Dead or alive. We know he was here. Someone must have seen him. He must be staying someplace. I'm ordering another five thousand posters, and we'll expand the area we're searching."

There were nods around the table as I met each pair of eyes.

Morelli's face had drained of color when he walked into the conference room and saw the photo on the monitor. He dropped into a chair as if his legs had turned to Jello. Caterson was close behind him and she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered urgently into his ear.

At a look from me she let go of him and backed off. I wasn't giving up and I wasn't going to tolerate any surrender on Morelli's part, either. When we found Stephanie she was going to need him to be there for her.

I finished giving out assignments for today and tonight and everyone cleared out, some to conduct interviews, most to sleep in preparation for more fieldwork tonight.

I went back to my apartment and slept for a couple hours, waking up filled with anxiety. Exercise, I thought. I needed to go running.

It was a hot afternoon, upper 90s, and I welcomed the sweat as it began to pour off me. I ran west from the office, through Little Havana toward the Orange Bowl stadium. I envisioned a grueling run in the heat, at least ten miles, then returning to shower and get ready for more searching, more interviewing.

As I ran through Riverside Park, I turned north by instinct and found myself in front of a white stucco church topped by a shiny dome with a cross. St. John Bosco.

It was a Hispanic section of the city, not far from where I'd lived from age 16 to 18 with my grandparents. This was their church, although I'd flat-out refused to attend with them. The sign was in Spanish. "San Juan Bosco, Padre Juan Carlos Valdes, Pastor," it read.

I was shirtless and covered with sweat, not fit to enter the church, but I lingered in the shade of a palm tree at the entranceway. It was Thursday afternoon, and according to the sign afternoon mass wasn't for another two hours.

I turned back toward the office, running hard, penalizing myself in the heat. An hour later I was showered, dressed, and parking in the church lot. I couldn't identify exactly what drew me, but I'd lived this long by following my instincts and they had led me here.

I entered the cool dim sanctuary of the church and was met in the back of the nave by the priest. He was elderly, white haired and brown skinned, wearing the traditional long black cassock with a white clerical collar. He studied me, his eyes taking in my black work clothes, pausing at each weapon hidden on my person.

"Something is troubling you, my son," he said to me in Cuban-accented Spanish.

I answered him in the same language. "Yes, Padre. I would like to make my confession."

He nodded and led me to the confessional.

I entered the small cubicle and knelt down, ghosts from my childhood hovering above my head, swirling memories around me.

The panel slid open.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been twenty-two years since my last confession…"

Stephanie had been gone thirty-four days.

_oOo_

**Chapter 21**

_Sunday, June 8_

Two days later on Saturday evening we got the break we needed. A bartender in a little dive in Opa Locka, one of the worst neighborhoods in Miami, thought he recognized El Látigo from the photos.

All thirteen pairs of partners from the task force and RangeMan converged on the area, hitting every business and every person we met on the street, showing our photos Saturday night and all day Sunday. Several additional RangeMan personnel papered the neighborhood with posters.

Late Sunday afternoon the DEA/ATF team of Gonzalez and Simmons showed the photos to a woman walking a baby in a carriage.

"Quizá," she answered Gonzalez in Spanish, "Perhaps. It looks like the man that lives at the end of the hall."

"Have you seen a woman?"

"No, just him."

We surrounded the building and I led Raptor, Tank, Bobby and Lester as we kicked the door open and burst into the one-bedroom apartment, guns drawn.

It was filthy and decrepit, an old, battered couch flecked with holes, soiled wooden floor, cruddy, chipped plaster walls.

Walking through into the bedroom the scene hit me with the force of a volcano erupting in my gut. Acid bubbled up into my throat and only by clenching every muscle in my body was I able to avoid puking my guts out.

A bare, shabby mattress covered by ancient ticking, dark blue and once white, now dirty brown stripes blotched with stains of various revolting hues…

Resting on the dusty boards of a rough wooden floor that had been painted brown but was now peeling and worn and pocked…

Walls of an indeterminate neutral color, grimy and faded and dingy…

A bloodstained shackle attached to a long chain extending to an oversized eyebolt screwed into the wall…

My eyes kept going back to the mattress and I finally closed them, the noise the team was making fading away as my mind went out to her. I felt her fear and pain, anger and hatred, heartache and numbness. It boiled within me, agonizing in its ferocity.

I don't know how much time passed before I came back. Foster was standing next to me, one hand on my shoulder, snapping her fingers in front of my face. I allowed her to take my arm and lead me out of the apartment and out to one of the SUVs. She guided me into the backseat and climbed in next to me.

"Alvirez and his techs need everyone out so they can process the scene," she said to me.

"I could feel her," I said, done in by the magnitude of what I'd experienced. "I could feel everything she felt when she was there."

"There are certain people in our lives that we have a special empathy for," Foster told me.

"No," I asserted, "it's more than empathy. We have some kind of physical connection. My body feels her when she's nearby, and I know it's the same for her. She feels it when I enter a room, even if she can't see me."

"Literature is rife with stories of soulmates, two people who are connected soul-to-soul, spirit-to-spirit. But there are no documented cases of it in the research. It's been sought, but never proven."

I fell silent. I had already revealed far too much.

We sat quietly for a few moments while I composed myself, and then I got out of the truck to take charge of the scene.

_oOo_

_Later that evening_

My cell phone rang and I flipped it open, glancing in the rearview mirror to see the lights flash behind me. "How do you spell relief, boss?" came Lester's voice.

Before Stephanie was taken, I allowed Lester his little jokes, but tonight I just growled at him. "Keep your mind on the job, Santos."

I put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.

Tank and I had just finished the first four-hour surveillance shift on El Látigo's apartment. There was still food in the refrigerator, a few cheap clothes in the closet, and I had a feeling he would return.

I intentionally made up the surveillance schedule of all RangeMan personnel, assigning the Feds and Morelli to continue to canvass bars and businesses. Surveillance was considered a lowly job by almost everyone, so I set the example by assigning myself first.

It was midnight and I turned the truck toward RangeMan. I was feeling the letdown after the surge of adrenaline that kept me going all night and all day, ever since the lead last evening that brought us to Opa Locka.

Other than those scheduled for surveillance, I gave the rest of the team the night off to catch up on sleep and whatever personal business they needed to transact tomorrow morning. The task force would meet at 1300 and I'd have a new schedule of assignments ready.

Back in my apartment I took a quick shower and tried to eat some grilled chicken and steamed vegetables that the building manager must have had delivered. He used a service to take care of my apartment and keep it stocked with staples and easy meals when I was in residence.

I forced down a few bites, tossed the dinner in the trash, and collapsed into bed, almost anxious for a dream of Stephanie. The desire to see her, to feel her, hold her in my arms was so visceral that I was beginning to think I would lose my mind, descend into oblivion, if we didn't find her soon.

I refused to even consider the possibility that she might be dead. She wasn't. I could still feel her.

In spite of the horrors I'd experienced in my time with the military and the abominations I'd committed, the thought of taking my own life had never once crossed my mind.

Until now.

If Stephanie died as a result of my past, I didn't want to remain in this world without her. It was as simple as that.

Not that I expected to be reunited with her in the afterlife. We were going to different places. But the hell I anticipated after death couldn't possibly be any worse than the hell on earth without her.

Stephanie had been gone thirty-six days.

_oOo_

The vibration of my phone woke me at 0200.

"Talk," I choked out, tears running down my cheeks from the sight and sound of that bastard flogging Stephanie in my dream, the crack of his whip sharp, her sobs of pain still echoing in my ears.

It was Lester. "Boss, we've got him."

_oOo_

**Chapter 22**

"Hold him. We'll be right there." I knew Lester understood the ramifications, but I reminded him anyway. "Not a word to anyone."

"Yes, sir."

I dialed Tank and met him in the garage five minutes later. I scrambled the cameras and disabled the GPS on an SUV. Tank drove while I called Raptor to let him know we were bringing in El Látigo. He assured me everything was ready.

There was no traffic at all on the street where Lester and Bobby were parked. They'd caught El Látigo walking down the sidewalk toward the apartment, stunned him and hustled him into the backseat of their SUV, where he was currently cuffed and shackled.

We pulled up beside them, but facing the opposite way. With both back doors open, it blocked the view of what was happening from every direction. They'd stunned El Látigo a second time when he began to come to, so transferring his unconscious body was no problem.

Once we had him secured in the back of our car I spoke with Lester and Bobby.

"The only ones that will know are the four of us and Raptor." They nodded. "Finish your shift and turn over to the next crew. Then go back and sleep. If I need you I'll call."

Nodding again they climbed back into their vehicle and Tank and I set off with El Látigo. About halfway back to RangeMan he began stirring and I half-turned, reaching back to tag him again with my stun gun. And if I scrambled a few brain cells, well, as long as he was capable of telling me what he did with Stephanie, I was fine with that.

Rather than entering the parking garage beneath the RangeMan building, we approached from the rear. Just before we entered the field of view of the security cameras I clicked my remote at them.

The back of the office had some very special features built in, and only a select few knew about them. They weren't on any plans of the building, and were almost impossible to discover, even if you suspected they existed and were searching for them.

Rather than scrambling the cameras, my remote freeze-framed them so that anyone watching would continue to see the quiet, empty nighttime scene. I pressed another button and a section of the wall swung silently open to reveal a steep downward ramp.

Tank drove down the incline into the sub-basement, a level almost nobody knew existed. It was down here we kept the things that would send us to prison for life if the Feds found out about them. Crates of illegal weapons, stashes of drugs of all types, large quantities of cash confiscated from criminals. And the soundproof cells.

Raptor met us as we parked the car. The sub-basement was accessible from inside the building only through a hidden staircase connecting to secret doorways on the top floor inside Raptor's and my apartments. If you didn't know exactly how to open them, even the most careful inspection wouldn't reveal them.

Trenton was similarly equipped.

With silent efficiency, Raptor and Tank stripped El Látigo naked and loosely chained him in one of the soundproof cells. He was still unconscious, so they left him lying there on the concrete floor and locked the door.

"Let's leave him in the dark for a while," I said, trying to quell my urge to make him talk right now.

Raptor went back up the hidden staircase and Tank and I got into the SUV, driving up the ramp and out the concealed entrance. As we reached the end of the block I clicked my remote back over my shoulder to return the security cameras to normal operation.

We drove around the block to the garage and both went to bed.

_oOo_

I tossed and turned for two hours and then got up and spent the morning down in my office with paperwork. They'd FedExed a whole carton full of it down from Trenton. With the entire core team here, as well as my top B-team guys, Trenton was left in the hands of Cal and Junior, both capable enough at routine operations. But if I were going to be away much longer I'd need to send Tank back to take care of contracts and the out-of-the-ordinary business.

I managed to eat a few bites of lunch and get through the meeting, parceling out assignments and the surveillance schedule for El Látigo's apartment. If the Feds knew we had El Látigo they'd have him behind bars in a D.C. second and be trumpeting the capture of a dangerous kidnapper from the rooftops. I would prefer that El Látigo never came to trial, and when we were through questioning him he would disappear without a trace.

And this time there would be no escape for him. I would make sure of it.

We were still concentrating our search on the Opa Locka area, so Tank and I set off after the meeting armed with photos. Since we both knew exactly where El Látigo was, we concentrated on the photos of Stephanie, showing them to every person we passed. The other teams were still pounding the pavement, as well.

At 2300 we called it a night.

As we drove into the garage Tank asked me, "Need some help tonight, boss?"

"Raptor's got my back," I responded. "Get some sleep."

He nodded.

I walked up the stairs to my apartment with more energy than I'd managed in weeks. Anticipation.

I didn't bother showering, just called Raptor.

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"More than ready, boss."

"Let's roll."

Stephanie had been gone thirty-eight days.

_TBC_


	10. Chapters 23, 24 & 25

**Chapter 23**

_Tuesday, June 10_

I opened the hidden door behind the built-in shelves in the small office off my bedroom. There was a high-tech motion-sensing and sound system and I slipped in the earpiece that would let me know if someone came and knocked on my apartment door or let themselves in. I closed and bolted the apartment, bedroom and office doors to slow down anyone trying to enter, and to give me time to get back up the hidden staircase if someone came looking for me.

I didn't expect anyone. They all knew better than to disturb me.

I walked down and down, into the depths of hell. Raptor was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs and together we entered El Látigo's cell.

He'd been alone in the dark for almost twenty-four hours and he squeezed his eyes shut as I snapped on the extra-bright overhead lights.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the chilly concrete wall, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. It was cool and damp, but the June heat had kept the temperature comfortable, even underground.

The room had the sharp smell of ammonia, and I could see he'd urinated on the floor, as far from the spot he was sitting as possible. The urine had run down the sloped floor toward the drain in the corner of the room.

I made a mental note to be sure someone dumped a few gallons of bleach down the drain when we cleaned the room afterward. If by some freak of fate the subbasement was ever discovered I wouldn't want a DNA analysis of the contents of the drain to convict me.

El Látigo slitted his eyes open as they adjusted to the light and spoke in Spanish. "Ah, the infamous El Trucidor."

I got right to the point. "Where is Stephanie?"

"You don't have my family to use against me this time." His voice was wooden.

It was what I expected. All my extensive interrogation skills hadn't broken him ten years ago. I always tried to avoid harming the innocent, but where many lives were at stake I was willing to do whatever it took.

Of course that was before I met Stephanie.

"I will give you one more chance to answer before I begin." I kept the fury and hate that churned inside out of my voice. "And you should consider the fact that my techniques have improved since we last met."

I paused to give him a chance to process my words. He remained silent.

"Where is Stephanie?" I asked again.

No response.

I nodded at Raptor and we walked to each side of El Látigo, where the restraints were fastened. The cuffs on each of his wrists were attached to chains that ran up the wall through metal rings at the upper corners of the room and down to hooks at waist level.

We each took a chain and pulled, hauling him to his feet by the wrists and spreading his arms wide above him. We refastened the chains to hold him there.

His ankles were shackled to similar chains running to eyebolts in the lower corners of the wall,. We pulled on those chains to bring his legs outward so that he was spreadeagled against the wall, the balls of his feet just barely reaching the floor to take a little of his weight.

I looked him over. The burn scars stood out on his body, streaking not only his arms as we'd seen from the photos, but also his legs and chest. Some freak of fate had spared his face and genitals.

Raptor walked out of the room. I stepped back and held El Látigo's eyes, my own completely dead, and after a few moments he looked away toward the door.

Raptor walked back in pushing a metal cart on wheels. El Látigo tried to remain expressionless, but I was sure I could spot a taste of fear in his eyes when he saw the assortment of tools the cart contained.

I glanced at the cart. "The torch, I think," I told Raptor.

Raptor picked up a small propane torch, flicked a lighter and opened the valve. The torch caught with a bright yellow flame and he adjusted the gas/air mixture until the flame was compact and blue, making a whooshing sound.

I took the torch and approached El Látigo. "Did you use that undersized dick to fuck my woman?" I asked. No response. "I think I'll start there."

I brought the torch between his legs and raised it high enough to singe the hair on his empty scrotum, his balls having headed north with fear. He strained upward on his toes trying to avoid the flame, and I didn't actually burn his skin, hoping against hope that just the threat would be enough to make him talk.

"Where is Stephanie?" I asked for the third time.

His face broke into a malicious smile. "She's gone. You'll never find her body."

"I don't believe you." My tone was cold but my stomach was detonating and I was about to be sick.

I turned and handed the torch to Raptor. If anyone rivaled El Trucidor for heartlessness and indifferent cruelty, it was Raptor. El Depredador, the Predator. "Take over," I choked out, hastening through the door. I slammed it shut behind me, blessedly cutting off the first scream, and bolted for the bathroom.

_oOo_

Two hours later I was sitting in a folding chair, my head in my hands, the foul taste of bile still on my tongue, when the door opened and Raptor emerged. The smell of burnt flesh followed him and my stomach lurched again.

"The fucking asswipe died on me." His voice was bitter. "Must have had a bad heart."

I looked at him, straining to maintain a neutral expression.

"His story never changed, no matter what I did to him. He said she OD'd on heroin and he dumped her body in the river just below the port. It would have been carried out on the tide."

"I don't believe it," I said. "I can still feel her."

His face held pity. "I'll get Tank to help with clean-up. Go to bed."

I dragged myself up the stairs and into the shower, scrubbing until my skin was red and raw. I had plenty to think about, not only the possibility that Stephanie was really gone, but also the fact that I'd been unable to do what the job required.

El Trucidor, my alter ego for more than a decade, was well and truly dead, as surely a victim of Stephanie Plum as Ranger was, as Carlos was.

I went to bed and slept for a couple of hours, dreaming of dead mermaids floating out on the tide, curly brown hair undulating in the sea currents and dead blue eyes sucking away my soul.

Stephanie had been gone thirty-nine days.

_oOo_

**Chapter 24**

_Six days later—Monday, June 16_

My phone rang at 0645 as I was shuffling papers at my desk. I glanced at the caller ID and my heart contracted, pain closing a fist around it. The call I'd been praying wouldn't come.

"General," I said into the phone.

"Good morning, Ranger," General Victor Gordon came through powerful and clear and authoritative, not mincing words. "As of this moment the task force is disbanded. It's been a full month, and we're putting it into the cold case file."

"Sir," I began, but he cut me off.

"I know this is personal, son, and because of my high regard for you I've already let it go on two weeks longer than if it were anyone else." His voice was kind but still decisive. "It's over. Send them home. That's an order."

"Yes, sir." No matter how much I hated it, I was still a soldier. I still followed direct orders.

An hour later I was sitting in the conference room waiting for the last members of the team to arrive. Once everyone was settled with their cups of coffee and bottles of water I began with the same word I'd used every single day for the past month.

"Report."

The discouragement was apparent as I heard negative after negative. No leads, no suspicions, nothing.

When we'd gone all the way around the table I stood to address the group.

"Thank you all very much for your efforts in the kidnapping of Stephanie Plum. Nobody could have done more to find her than you've done."

Now for the hard part, at least for me. "I received a call from General Gordon this morning. The task force is disbanded effective immediately."

I looked at the faces around the table and standing against the walls. Regret, sadness, pity, but overshadowing all, relief. They were glad the fruitless search was over.

"You're ordered to report back to your regular jobs. Please be sure before you leave that all files, interviews, and other paperwork related to this investigation are returned to this room. RangeMan personnel remain here. The rest of you are dismissed."

The Feds filed past me one at a time, shaking my hand, saying good-bye and thank you, nothing more. Until Foster.

"You know where to reach me if you need someone to talk to," she murmured into my ear as she drew my head down and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Take care of yourself, Ranger."

I just gave her a curt nod. I wasn't ready to give up yet, not by a longshot.

Caterson shook my hand and then stepped to one side, waiting for Morelli. He was the last one, and he probably thought he was being discreet, holding back until the rest of the Feds had left the room.

He didn't extend a hand, just a nasty look. "It's your fault, Manoso, and you'll pay. You better stay down here, because if you come back to Trenton…" He trailed off as Tank, Lester and Bobby stepped up to flank me, supportive and far more dangerous than I was at the moment.

I just gave him my blank stare. He turned and walked toward the door, Caterson taking his arm and joining him as he passed.

I turned back to the RangeMan team. "Okay, men, assignments."

Stephanie had been gone forty-four days.

_oOo_

_Four days later—Friday, June 20_

On Friday night, after another futile five days of combing the city showing people photos of Stephanie, I sent Tank, Manny, Zero, Vince and Woody back to Trenton.

Tank was a man of few words and he said nothing, just clapped me on the shoulder as he walked past on his way out the door. The others followed his lead.

Stephanie had been gone forty-eight days.

_oOo_

_A week later—Friday, June 27_

I kept Lester, Bobby, Hal and Ram for another week, but the following Friday sent them back to Trenton as well. I dismissed the rest of the Miami staff to their normal duties.

I was sleeping a little better, even going a couple of nights without dreaming. That was the worst thing, I thought. I was starting to get used to the loss of Stephanie, and I hated myself for it.

I continued to spend twenty hours a day searching. I went back through box after box of files, looking for some inconsistency, some niggling little detail to galvanize my instincts, but found nothing.

I ate just enough to keep going, and pushed myself further and further, refusing to admit, even to myself, that she might be gone for good.

Armed with photos of Stephanie, I walked from bar to bar, store to store, not confining myself to the worst parts of the city but spiraling ever outward from the Opa Locka apartment. I must have shown the pictures to thousands of people, but nobody recognized her.

Stephanie had been gone fifty-five days.

_oOo_

_Two days later—Sunday, June 29_

On the Sunday evening after Lester and Bobby left I found myself back at San Juan Bosco Church. Evening mass was just beginning in Spanish and I slipped into the back, losing myself in the familiar-yet-distant ritual.

I remained seated, my head bowed, as the small body of worshippers passed me and exited the building. The voices trailed off and finally it was just me, alone with my thoughts, begging God for forgiveness for what I'd done, pleading for Stephanie's life.

I was taught as a child that you couldn't bargain with God. Praying something like 'Dear Lord help me pass this test and I promise I'll go to mass every week for the next year' never worked.

But I was desperate. I'm a changed man, Lord, I prayed, and it is because of Stephanie Plum. Her goodness has overcome the evil of El Trucidor. The world is a better place with her in it. Please God… Please God…

Father Valdes came back in and sat down next to me, fingering his rosary as he prayed silently. After about an hour he patted me on the shoulder and left me alone in my misery.

Stephanie had been gone fifty-eight days.

_oOo_

**Chapter 25**

_Three days later—Wednesday, July 2_

"Boss, there's a call on the hotline," came the voice from the control room Wednesday morning as I sat at my desk disregarding the papers covering it. "Do you want it?"

Every few days a call would still come in on the special number we'd established for use with the ten thousand posters that I'd had papered over the city. Many of the posters had blown away, been torn down, or were covered over with other, newer posters, but some remained and occasional callers would take a shot at the reward.

"I'll take it here," I said, waiting for the call to be transferred to my desk phone. After a moment the phone buzzed and I picked it up.

"Yes?"

The voice on the line was a girl's, young, soft, uncertain. "Uh, 'scuse me for botherin' y'all, but I saw a pitcher of a kidnapped lady stuck up on a pole and I was wonderin' iff'n y'all ever found her."

I was short and sharp. "Your name, please?"

"I goes by Velveteen," she said.

"What's your real name?"

"Not fer folks to know. S'it really matter?"

"I guess not. Okay, Velveteen, what about the lady in the picture?"

"Well, I ain't really sure, but she looks a li'l bit like some'un what works in the same house as me. Not 'zackly, but I guess'n the pitchers on the poster was taken a long time ago, right? When she was younger?"

Six months ago. But a lot had happened since.

"Can you tell me where I can find the lady that looks like the picture, Velveteen?"

"Is there still a ree-ward? 'Cuz iff'n it's her I really needs the money. I gots two li'l girls, one's three and the other'n's jus' a baby. They's stayin' with a friend 'cuz I can'ts afford a place o' my own."

Two kids, and she sounds like she's about fifteen. "How about if I come to the house and you show me? If it's her I'll give you the reward right away."

"Not the house. But there be a li'l samwich shop jus' down the street. Kin y'all meets me?"

"Just give me the address and I'll be right there."

_oOo_

The sandwich shop was nestled among slums and burnt-out row homes controlled by drug dealers and gangs. It wasn't that far from the office, in Overtown, a very poor black neighborhood just to the northwest of downtown Miami. Although developers were touting a renewal here, the bulk of the neighborhood was still graffiti-covered boarded-up abandoned buildings. I took a battered old SUV we sometimes used for surveillance so I wouldn't stand out in the ghetto.

As I entered the diner twenty minutes after the phone call, I was grateful my dark skin and working clothes helped me blend in. There wasn't a white face in sight. I gave a couple of teenagers a look and they scurried out of the back booth carrying their cokes and burgers. I sat down on the cracked vinyl seat with my back to the wall and ordered coffee.

An hour later I was still waiting.

I signaled the young waitress over. "I was supposed to meet someone here. Do you know Velveteen?"

Her dark eyes grew huge. "Ooh, yeah, I knows her, and I knows her man'd kill her iff'n she be steppin' out on him."

She started backing away, but stopped when I pulled a thick roll of cash out of my pocket. I peeled off a hundred. "It's important that I find the place that she works. There's another woman there that I need to see. Not Velveteen."

I could see her struggle between avarice and terror at what would happen if Velveteen's man found out she told.

I sweetened the pot by peeling off another hundred, adding, "And I won't tell anyone I talked to Velveteen or you."

She held out her hand for the money and didn't speak until it was safe in her pocket. "Two blocks over there," she pointed northeast. "A big, dirty tan house wi' two red doors openin' in the middle."

She darted back into the kitchen without another word.

I got in my car and began circling the blocks in the direction she'd pointed. Sure enough, a dirty tan house with double doors painted red.

I sat in my Explorer across the street for a while, watching the house, but nobody went in or out. Not wanting to wait any longer, anxious to find the woman that looked like Stephanie, I climbed the peeling front steps and rang the bell.

The doors creaked open, revealing a buxom black woman wearing dark red lipstick and a very low-cut red knit top that exposed bountiful cleavage.

"Come on in, honey" she greeted me, looking me over and sitting down at a desk in the foyer. "Well now, you don't look like you need to pay for it, so what can I help you with today?"

I quickly evaluated the situation and made a snap decision how to play it. "I got some, uh, needs," I used a Cuban accent left over from my youth in the hood, "and I heard you got a curly-headed white puta that could maybe help me with them. How much for an hour with her?"

Her mouth curved into a greedy smile when I pulled out my roll of bills. "Ah yes, our shining Star. For you, honey, we got a special going on today. Two hundred for an hour, five hundred for all afternoon, up until, uh," she looked at a rhinestone-encrusted watch on her wrist, "six o'clock."

I was pretty sure the price had doubled when she saw my money, but I didn't care. I just wanted to confirm that it wasn't Stephanie, and if it cost me two hundred, fine.

I peeled off two bills and handed them to her. "I'll take an hour."

She turned to a panel of buttons next to her and pushed the one marked "6." I heard the faint jangling of a bell far upstairs, and she handed me a key. "Room six, third floor. Just let yourself right in. Return the key to me on your way out."

I climbed the stairs two at a time, a vague uneasiness rippling in my chest. Pausing in the hallway I emptied my mind to see if I could feel Stephanie.

Nothing except that sense of disquietude, like something unfortunate was about to happen.

The solid wood door marked "6" was grimy, stained with God knows what. I inserted the key into the lock and let myself in, pulling the door shut behind me and assessing my environment.

The room was plain, with formerly white walls and white filmy curtains over the single window fluttering in the draft from a noisy air-conditioner. A simple dresser of white-painted wood composite stood in one corner, while a half-open door in the opposite corner revealed mildewed white tile and the edge of a toilet.

However, the bed was diametrically opposed to its unremarkable surroundings. The lumpy mattress was covered with a faded, but still jarring paisley-print cotton spread in orange and yellow, like something from a college dorm room. The chipped black-painted bars of the iron headboard were bedecked with a jumble of chains, padlocks, leather straps, and fur-lined handcuffs. It was a BDSM fetishist's wet dream.

The hooker had her back to me, standing at a small sink in the corner by the bathroom wiping her hands on a thin, yellowed towel. Her blonde-streaked hair was hacked off just above her shoulders, frizzy-curly, dry and dull and lifeless, not Stephanie's glossy chestnut coils.

A short, transparent pink robe hung from her narrow shoulders down over an ass that I could see was sunken and scrawny, nothing like Stephanie's enticing rounded globes that just begged to be cupped in your hands.

Her legs were long, like Stephanie's, but stick-like, all bones, not shapely and built to be wrapped around your waist.

"I'm sorry, I was looking for someone else," I said, reaching for the doorknob to let myself out.

She turned toward me, saying in a husky, slurred voice, "Hey there. I'm Star. What's your pleasure, big guy? Sucking, fucking, spanking? Round the world or S and M are extra. Whatever you want for the next hour I'm all… yours…" She trailed off as her apathetic gaze reached me.

I looked into those lackluster blue eyes with the pinprick pupils. My mind was spinning, my heart racing, and the acid in my stomach bubbled up to my throat, threatening to erupt at any second.

My voice didn't work and I had to force the nausea down and clear my throat to get the single word out.

"Babe."

_TBC in Part III—With You_


	11. Chapters 26, 27 & 28

_**WARNING: There's still a ways to go. Still dark, very angsty for the next 3 days or so. Then things will begin to improve, I promise!**_

_**DO NOT READ if angst, sexual acts or bad language upset you.**_

_**Babe, and there will be Morelli-bashing.**_

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money. Characters belong to Janet Evanovich. Song lyrics belong to Linkin Park._

_oOo_

**Part III—With You**

_Now I'm trapped in this memory  
And I'm left in the wake of the mistake, slow to react  
So even though you're close to me  
You're still so distant  
And I can't bring you back_

_It's true the way I feel  
Was promised by your face  
The sound of your voice  
Painted on my memories  
Even if you're not with me  
I'm with you.  
—Linkin Park (Hybrid Theory)_

**Chapter 26**

_The same day—Wednesday, July 2_

"Babe." I had to clear the hoarseness from my throat, wondering if she recognized me. She was obviously on something, functioning, but hazy.

She swayed over to me, reaching for my belt. "I'll make it really good for you, honey. And if I do, you can show me how much you liked it by giving me a nice tip. So just tell me what you want and Star will make you burst."

"Babe, wait," I said, grabbing both her wrists in one hand to stop her from undoing my pants. I cupped my other hand under her chin and tipped her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes, studying that face that was once as familiar to me as my own reflection but now belonged to a complete stranger.

Confusion clouded the blueness of her eyes and wrinkled her brow as she looked at me.

"Ranger?" she asked in a high, childlike voice, blinking and trying to focus on my face. "Is that you? You look so different… Your hair…"

My heart was breaking in two, the joy and the pain warring for control. "I'm taking you home, Babe," I said.

I scooped her up into my arms and started for the door, but she shrieked, "No!" and began to struggle, frantic to get away from me, twisting her body and pounding on my chest with her fists. "No," she wailed again.

I stopped and set her back on her feet, taking hold of her shoulder with one hand and using the other under her chin again to make her look at me. "Babe, I don't think you understand. I'm taking you home. You're finished here, for good. Nobody's going to hurt you anymore."

"I can't go," she whimpered, shrinking from me, pulling away from my hands. She shuffled backwards until the back of her knees hit the bed and she sank down on it. "I can't leave this room. I tried once, but it hurt so bad I thought I was going to die. It still hurts."

She used both hands to point to her ankles. The right ankle had a metal tracker on it, the kind that the police use for keeping people under house arrest. The other ankle was a mass of angry red burns, partially scabbed and oozing.

"I'll get someone to come take it off, Babe." I whipped out my phone and punched in Raptor's speed dial.

"Boss?" came Raptor's voice.

"I found her." The relief of those words passing my lips made my knees weak, and I took a long step that allowed me to sit down on the bed next to Stephanie. I put my arm around her and held her close to my side as I continued.

"She's in a brothel at the corner of 20th and 3rd Avenue, red doors, room six. She's wearing some kind of ankle device that will burn her if she leaves the room. I need a key for it. You'll need to bring someone that has master keys for law enforcement locks." I could pick most locks, but this kind was unpickable.

After I disconnected, I looked at Stephanie. She was twig thin, probably less than a hundred pounds, skeletal on her five-foot-seven frame. Needle marks marred her left forearm.

"Do you have any normal clothes, Babe? Someone will be here soon to take that thing off you so you can come home."

She gave me befuddled look, but got up and moved to the low dresser in the corner. "I've got some stuff I wear when I'm not working."

She pulled out a pair of denim shorts and a t-shirt and brought them over to the bed, handing them to me. "Are these okay?" she asked.

"They're fine, Babe. Do you have any underwear?"

She shook her head.

"That's okay. Can you get dressed?"

Standing in front of me she dropped the robe off her shoulders and let it slide to the floor. She appeared to have no modesty standing naked in front of me, so I used the opportunity to look her over.

Her skin was dry and scaly. The scars of the cigarette burns were puckered red circles on her upper arms. The whip marks on the front of her had faded to pale pink and weren't going to leave permanent scars.

"Turn around, Babe, so I can see your back."

The lashes on her back had been harder, and more frequent, and some of them would scar. But they were mostly healed and looked clean.

"Okay, Stephanie, you can get dressed now."

She turned back to face me and just stood there, dazed, so I handed her the shorts. "Here, put these on."

She complied, buttoning and zipping them. They were several sizes too large, on the verge of sliding down off her bony hips.

"Now this," I coached, handing her the t-shirt.

She pushed her head through the neck hole, but then seemed to forget what she was doing, standing there with the shirt hanging around her neck, arms at her sides. I was gentle as I guided first one arm and then the other into the sleeves and pulled the shirt down to cover her.

"Come here, Babe. It won't be too long before we have you out of here." I pulled her sideways onto my lap and she cuddled up against my chest. She was so light it was like holding a child.

Time passed, my mind blank, my heart content just to have her in my arms. I should have been planning how to protect her once we got back to Trenton, but I couldn't think. I could only feel.

Suddenly the bell beside the door blasted loud and long. Stephanie jumped up.

"You have to go now. Your time is up," she said, looking a little more alert than when I'd arrived.

"I'll be right back," I said, rising and walking toward the door.

"Wait, you forgot my tip."

"I'm coming back," I told her.

"No, no, _no!_" She sounded panic-stricken. "My tip first. I need it for my medicine." Tears filled her eyes, and anguish filled my heart.

"Okay, Babe, here's your tip. But I'll be right back." She grabbed the hundred dollar bill I offered and stuffed it in the top drawer of the dresser.

I went down the stairs to the lobby and handed the buxom woman three hundred dollars. I was succinct. "I've decided to stay for the afternoon." And I walked back up the stairs.

When I re-entered the room Stephanie was sitting on the bed, her arms around her bent knees. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw me. "You came back," she sniffled.

"I'll always come back, Babe," I told her as I sat next to her and pulled her onto my lap, holding her tight against my chest.

While we sat there together waiting for Raptor her tears faded away and she dozed off, her head tucked under my chin.

I said a silent prayer of thanks to God.

Stephanie had been gone sixty-one days when I finally found her.

_oOo_

**Chapter 27**

By the time I carried her up the stairs to my apartment Stephanie was beginning to twitch and was blinking watery eyes.

"It's time for my medicine," she whined. "I need to go back to my room. My money is there and Cinnamon will get me my shot."

I sat down on the couch and held her in my lap. "Babe, the doctor will be here in a minute. Just try to hold on."

She yawned, sniffled, and then shivered, goose bumps breaking out on her arms. "I'm cold, and my stomach hurts." She yawned again. "I need my medicine. Time for a little horsey ride."

There was a tap on the door and Raptor showed in a short, round middle-aged man carrying a black medical bag. "This is Dr. Kenneth Perry. Ken, Ranger Manoso, CEO of RangeMan. And Stephanie Plum."

I wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. "Dr. Perry, Stephanie was kidnapped and has been held captive for two months. She was forced into prostitution and is addicted to drugs, I'm not sure exactly what, but I suspect heroin. She needs immediate evaluation and treatment."

The doctor pulled a stethoscope out of his bag, stuck it in his ears and placed the end on Stephanie's chest. She pushed it away and started an irritated whining.

"No, get that thing off me. Don't touch me. It hurts. I'm cold and my stomach hurts. I don't feel good and I need my medicine."

"Can you give her something to ease the symptoms?" I asked.

"Not until we find out what she's been taking," Dr. Perry answered. "She needs to be admitted so she can be evaluated and treated. Do you have any preference as to where?"

I stood up, easily lifting Stephanie with me and stood over him, feeling the need to assert myself. "The best. Money is no object. Stephanie gets the best treatment and the best specialists available."

"Oceanview, then," the doctor mused, almost to himself. He looked up at me. "Best private treatment clinic in Florida. Do you want me to call an ambulance to transport her there?"

"No, I'll take her myself."

He pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled on it. "Here," he said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to me. "I'll call them right now and tell them you're coming. You'd better move it. She's going to get more and more uncomfortable."

Without another word I turned, still carrying Stephanie, and walked out the door and down the stairs to the garage, Raptor striding ahead to drive us to the clinic.

_oOo_

I sat alone in the small private waiting room, stolid on the outside but falling apart inside. Every time the door opened I could hear Stephanie's voice, screaming, shouting, sobbing, railing at the doctors, bitching at the nurses, sometimes whimpering, sometimes wailing. Every snippet of sound cut deeper into my soul.

Oh, Babe, I thought to myself, heartsick. What have I done to you?

It had been almost six hours since I'd found her, and probably eight or more since her last fix. She was in serious withdrawal. As soon as the last of the bloodwork came back the doctors assured me they'd work out a treatment plan to get her detoxed.

In the meantime she was suffering and there was nothing I could do about it.

Finally the door opened to blessed silence and Dr. Gupta, the detox specialist, came in. I started to stand, but he waved me back into my chair and collapsed onto the couch opposite.

"Ms. Plum is under sedation." His voice was light and musical, with a pronounced Indian accent. "Her blood tests showed a physical dependency on heroin, and hair follicle testing shows sustained use. She must have begun using heroin almost immediately after her abduction."

I interrupted. "It was forced on her. She didn't take it voluntarily."

"Yes, sir, I understand. But however her use began, her body needs it and our job is to first overcome the physical addiction, and then treat the emotional repercussions."

"What treatment do you recommend?"

"In addition to the heroin addiction, Ms. Plum's blood tests showed traces of several other drugs, including alcohol, marijuana, rohypnol and strychnine. Her heartbeat is irregular, and care must be taken to avoid permanent heart damage."

I nodded that I understood.

"There are several options for treatment. For Ms. Plum's specific case we recommend the use of oxezapam to ease the anxiety, clonidine for potential hypertension from the withdrawal, baclofen for the restless leg symptoms, and loperamide for diarrhea. The detoxification process will take from four to seven days."

"What about rapid detox? I've read that it can be done in less than twenty-four hours under anesthesia."

"There are serious risks associated with that method, and because of Ms. Plum's heart arrhythmia I would strongly oppose the idea of anesthesia. In addition, the drugs used to break the addiction could further damage her heart."

"You don't recommend methodone?"

"The use of methodone or buprenophone, which you might know as Suboxone, involves replacing the addiction to heroin with an addiction to another drug. It is our policy to eliminate all drugs from our patients' systems, so that Ms. Plum will leave here completely free of physical addiction."

I nodded. Gupta was supposed to be one of the foremost drug treatment specialists in the South, and I would accept his recommendation.

"Can I see her?"

"Ms. Plum is sedated and sleeping right now. You may look in on her for a moment, but then I ask that you go home and do not return until the detoxification process is complete. While we do our best to make our patients comfortable, there will be periods of discomfort and we find that having family members present at those times can impede the patient's recovery. We will call you when Ms. Plum is sufficiently recovered to be allowed visitors."

I sat beside Stephanie's bed for a half hour, holding her hand and watching over her. In spite of the drugged sleep she was shivering and her legs were jerking. My heart ached for her, and I wasn't sure I could ever forgive myself for what she'd suffered. Because of my selfishness in wanting to be near her she had undergone two months of pure hell, with more to come as the heroin was starved out of her system.

Eventually a nurse came in and told me my time was up and they'd call me when she was allowed to have visitors. Trying hard to keep my shoulders from slumping I trudged out to the lobby, where Raptor waited to drive me home.

Once in the car I pulled out my phone to begin notifying people about Stephanie. First the call I dreaded the most. Morelli.

He finally answered, just as my hopes were raised for the reprieve of voicemail. "What the fuck do you want, Manoso?"

"I found Stephanie. She's alive…"

_oOo_

**Chapter 28**

_Five days later—Monday, July 7 _

I'd thought of nothing else for five days. But I found myself reluctant to walk through the doors of the clinic.

Don't be an asshole, I told myself. Stephanie needs you and you're going to be here for her.

I'd called Barbara Foster, the FBI shrink, the day after I found Stephanie, wanting to ask her some questions about what to expect after detox. We talked for over an hour that day and again each day since.

She couldn't predict how Stephanie would feel, but she'd given me possibilities, prepared me for the worst and the best.

I squared my shoulders and walked into the lobby. The receptionist made a phone call and directed me to visitation room three. I plodded down the long hallway, my steps dragging, the hum of Stephanie's nearness increasing the closer I got to room three.

She was standing there, back to the door, staring out the window at the flower garden and sloping lawns toward the sliver of ocean visible in the distance.

She was still painfully thin, the loose gray sweats she wore doing little to hide it. Her blonde-streaked hair was carefully arranged in loose curls and was beginning to get some of its shine back.

I didn't want to startle her, so I closed the door with an audible click and allowed my footfalls to sound as I crossed the room to stand next to her.

After an eternity she turned toward me, her face pinched and drawn, her shoulders set and tense.

"Ranger," she said coldly.

"Babe." I reached for her, needing her in my arms to know that she was real, not a dream or some figment of my deluded imagination.

"No. Don't touch me." She shrank away and gave me an icy glare. "Is it true what _he_ told me? What you did to his wife? What you did to his _baby?_"

I couldn't lie to her, and my eyes dropped, unable maintain contact, shame flooding through me like a rain-swollen torrent rushing over a dam, breaking off chunks of the structure, weakening the foundation.

It was no use telling her that I was no hero. She'd always thought of me as larger than life, Batman, Superman, and it inflated my ego so much that I hadn't tried to deter her. In truth I was none of those things. I was just a man, and a flawed one at that.

I was no longer El Trucidor, the Butcher. I'd spent the past five years trying to rid myself of the remnants of him, to eliminate the evil emptiness that once inhabited me. Loving Stephanie helped me exorcise the demons. I just couldn't allow her goodness to come into contact with the vicious void that had been El Trucidor.

She turned back to the window. Her voice was low and harsh, gutting me like a fillet knife slicing up a flounder. "Get away from me. I never want to see you again. I want Joe."

"He's flying down tomorrow morning. He'll be here when you're released and he'll take you home to Trenton."

She nodded without looking at me.

Foster had prepared me for the possibility, probability even, that something like this would happen, but the reality of it was so much more painful than I could ever have imagined. But only what I deserved.

"If you need anything at all from me, please call. Anytime… And Stephanie… I'm sorry." I turned and walked out the door, my shoulders slumped, defeated. El Látigo might be gone, but he had achieved his goal, condemned me to a fate worse than death. He had won.

_oOo_

I went myself to pick up Morelli at Kendall-Tamiami the next morning. I'd sent my jet for him, and it would take him and Stephanie straight back to Trenton.

"Jesus, you look like hell," he said, doing a double-take when he caught sight of me. I already knew that. In the weeks since the task force disbanded my hair had gone from gray-streaked to completely white. I'd lost even more weight, and permanent creases furrowed my face. A stranger meeting me for the first time would have thought I was in my sixties.

I was silent as I drove Morelli to Oceanview. When we arrived in the parking lot I got out of the SUV and handed him the keys. "You can just leave this at the airport. Someone will pick it up."

As he started to walk toward the entrance, I stopped him with a word.

"Joe."

He turned back. "What?"

"Stephanie went through hell. She's going to need counseling." I held out a fax of a business card I'd gotten from Foster. "This is a psychologist up at Princeton recommended by Barbara Foster. Stephanie's health insurance through RangeMan will cover an unlimited number of visits. Please try to get her to go."

In actuality, I would personally cover an unlimited number of visits, but Morelli didn't need to know that.

His voice was rough. "We don't need your help, Manoso. Your help is what caused this whole mess. I'm going to take care of Stephanie now."

"Joe, just listen to what the doctors tell you. She'll need professional help. Please." I held out the paper again.

He took it from me and held my eyes as he deliberately crumpled it up and dropped it on the ground.

"Fuck you, Manoso," he said and walked away.

_oOo_

I remained in Miami another week, making sure the business there was under control and making sure Velveteen, the young hooker whose call had led me to Stephanie, was settled with her little girls into a secure apartment. Raptor was taking responsibility for seeing that she got some education and had proper childcare.

I was avoiding going back to Trenton to face the accusing eyes and whispered innuendos. But a call from Tank finally convinced me that my presence was needed there.

The night before I left, I found myself again sitting in the back of San Juan Bosco Church, trying to take some comfort from the familiar Spanish words of the Sunday evening mass. Following an irresistible impulse, I emptied my money clip into the collection basket, not knowing why, but giving in to the urge.

When everyone else had left Father Valdes again sat with me for a time, fingering his rosary and offering silent prayers.

After a while I spoke. "I found her, Padre. She's safe."

"The answer to prayer, my son," he replied. "The Lord always hears and answers. It may not be the answer we selfish humans want, but God knows what is best."

God knew what I deserved, and gave it to me.

"Thank you for your prayers, Padre."

_oOo_

The first thing I did when I reached the seventh floor apartment in Trenton on Monday morning was dig into my nightstand for the card Foster had given me. I dialed the number.

"Hello, my name is Carlos Manoso, and I'd like to make an appointment to see Dr. Sanders."

_TBC_


	12. Chapters 29 & 30

**Chapter 29**

_Tuesday, July 15_

The day after I returned to Trenton I received an angry call from Morelli.

"Manoso, I told Tank last week, _I'm_ taking care of Steph. So call off your fucking guard dogs right now."

I kept my voice even. "So you would leave Stephanie unprotected when you go back to work?" I knew he was taking his second week of vacation time to stay home with her, and I also knew he didn't have unlimited leave.

"She doesn't need your goons hanging around watching every move she makes. As long as you stay away from her, she's perfectly safe."

"I'll make a deal with you. If you let RangeMan install a security system in your house I'll call off the guards. No charge for the system or the monitoring service."

"I don't need a fucking security system. And I don't want fucking cameras everywhere so you can watch every move we make."

"We'll just do sensors on the windows and doors with an alarm, and only install cameras outside."

"Fuck," he said, but I knew he was going to allow it. After a long moment of silence he said, "I don't want Steph to have to see your guys invading our privacy. What day can you do it? I'll take her away for the day."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Okay, we'll leave by ten a.m. and your guys can do the installation. I'll leave a key under the front doormat."

"No need," I said, mainly to piss him off, to remind him that my guys can get in anywhere they want, and so can the bad guys.

"Fuck," he said again and hung up.

_oOo_

The next day we went over to Morelli's house and installed the most advanced technology available. Hector and Vince did the job, and breaking normal procedure, I went along to oversee. I told them it was because the dog, Bob, would know me and be friendly. I didn't tell them that even if the dog didn't know me he would be friendly.

I wandered through the house, searching for traces of Stephanie. Shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom, a small bag of cosmetics that looked like they were donated by her sister or one of her friends, a very few clothes in one drawer, a couple of t-shirts, knit shorts and pajamas, basic cotton underwear. One flowered skirt and matching top in the closet, looking like a hand-me-down from someone, not something she'd choose for herself. One pair of sneakers on the floor, no FMPs.

She'd been here a whole week. The old Stephanie would have bought out Macy's by now, filled a dresser and packed the closet with new things. It gave me an uneasy feeling.

When I got back to my office I pulled up the two new feeds from the cameras mounted above the front and back doors of Morelli's house. They were state-of-the-art, with multiple lenses located to give overlapping wide-angle views of the entire front and back yards, as well as the steps and the outsides of the doors themselves.

I assured myself there was no way anyone could enter the house without being seen, not even by flattening themselves against the house and sliding along the wall. Then I sat and stared at the monitor, waiting for Stephanie to come home.

At about 2030, just as dusk was falling, Morelli's SUV pulled up to the curb. I could see the silhouette of Stephanie's curly head in the passenger seat.

I plugged in an earpiece and turned up the sound. Morelli would go ballistic if he knew the cameras were equipped with audio, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Or me.

Morelli got out of the car with a Pino's bag and I heard his voice drifting across the front yard. "Come on, Cupcake, I'm starving."

He walked up the front steps and opened the door for Bob the dog to come bounding out. Morelli went into the house and I watched Bob race out of the yard, disappearing from view.

Stephanie was still sitting in the car.

The green light in the corner of the screen began flashing red as soon as Morelli opened the door, and after a few seconds it turned solid red, showing that Morelli had shut off the alarm. We'd left the code taped to the control panel in the front hallway.

The dog came racing back into the frame and scratched at the door. It opened and Morelli stepped out, looking at the SUV.

"Fuck," he muttered and walked out to the car.

"Come on, Cupcake, time for dinner," he said as he opened the door for Stephanie. He took her arm and pulled gently until she got out of the car, standing there looking lost.

Morelli put an arm around her, speaking as if to a child. "Pino's meatball subs, Steph. Mmmm…"

Propelled by his arm around her, she walked robot-like alongside him up the walk to the front door and inside. He closed the screen but left the front door open and his voice trailed off as he got farther from the door. "Anthony gave us some extra sauce because he knows how much you like it…"

I heard the scrape of the back door opening and Morelli's voice came again. "And Eddie said she's a lot better now."

They must have been sitting at the kitchen table eating their meatball subs, because I could hear Morelli's voice from time to time, urging Stephanie to eat, talking about his family and people they knew, giving Bob pieces of a sandwich. But not a word from Stephanie.

Finally the rustling of paper sandwich wrappers being crumpled up told me they were finished. "Cupcake, you really need to eat something. How are you going to get your figure back if you don't eat?"

No response.

"Are you tired, Steph? It was pretty hot at the beach today, even though all you did was sit. It's nine o'clock. You must be just about ready for bed… Come on, I'll help you get undressed … Come on, Cupcake, you can do it. Just walk up the stairs…"

After a minute I heard a scrape and a soft beep as the alarm circuit for the bedroom window was broken.

"There, that's better. There's a little bit of a breeze tonight." Morelli's voice came through loud and clear. The front camera and microphone were on the wall right outside the bedroom, and with the window open it was almost as if I were right in the room with them.

"Put your arms up, Cupcake, so I can get that shirt off you… There, now sit down so I can get your shorts off… Good… Doesn't that feel better?"

I heard the creak of the mattress and imagined Stephanie lying down on the bed, Morelli climbing in beside her.

Morelli groaned, and his voice was husky. "Oh, yes, Cupcake, lick underneath… Just like that… It feels so good…. Now suck a little harder… Oh, yes…"

For several minutes there was no sound but his occasional "mmm," and then he spoke again. "Now turn over. I want to do you from behind."

I felt like crying, like screaming, like running over there and beating the shit out of him. There still hadn't been a sound from Stephanie, but now there was a rhythmic creaking of the bed, punctuated by his moans and exclamations of "Oh, yes!" After an agonizing eternity a series of grunts in rhythm with the creaks told me he was climaxing.

Quiet for a few minutes, and then the creak of the mattress again. "That was great, Cupcake. You sleep now. I'm going down to watch the Phillies game. I'll be back in a bit."

I heard the faint sound of the television coming on downstairs and after a time Morelli's voice talking on the phone.

Not another sound came from the bedroom.

_oOo_

**Chapter 30**

_Six days later—Monday, July 21_

I was spending almost all my time in the office, watching the monitor, anxious to see Stephanie, to reassure myself that she was going to be all right. When I was in my apartment I carried my laptop from room to room with me, constantly watching the screen. But she never came out of the house, not even to the door.

Morelli took the dog for walks, went out and returned with bags of groceries, answered the door when his mother and grandmother stopped by with a casserole. But no sign of Stephanie, not even when her own parents and grandmother came over, arms full of packages and containers of food. They were there about an hour and then left, shaking their heads and tsk-tsking over Stephanie's condition.

The weather had gotten hot, and Morelli turned on a newly installed air conditioner, closing all the windows and doors, so I'd been spared the torment of listening to him fuck her again.

Tank had been doing the bonds office run, and I asked him if Lula had seen Stephanie.

"No. She called, but Morelli won't even let her talk to Steph on the phone. As far as we know, Steph doesn't have a cell phone yet, just the house phone, and only Morelli answers it. Lula even tried dropping by the first week Steph was home, but Morelli wouldn't let her in."

I was livid, and suffering from a feeling of helplessness almost as bad as when Stephanie was missing. Since I moved to Trenton and started RangeMan I'd always had the power and the money to make sure things happened to my satisfaction. Being denied the ability to influence Stephanie's care created a turmoil within me that was rare in my life. She needed professional help, and Morelli was keeping her locked away from it.

And today he was going back to work.

I was awake early, as usual, still unable to sleep more than a couple hours a night. I began watching my computer at 0500.

At 0600 the back door opened and the dog came barreling out followed by Morelli wearing sweats and carrying a leash. They both disappeared from view, returning twenty minutes later, the kitchen door closing behind them.

At 0645 the front door opened and Morelli and the dog came out. He hooked the dog to a chain wrapped around a metal stake in the postage-stamp-sized front lawn and held the front door open, calling, "Cupcake, I'm leaving Bob out front for a while. Don't forget to bring him back in. I'll see you around five."

Closing the screen but leaving the front door open, Morelli climbed into his vehicle. I heard the starter and the crunch of his tires on the asphalt as he drove away down the street. The dog spent a few minutes snooping around and then went up onto the stoop, scratching at the door to be let in. After five minutes of scratching and whining he turned around three times and curled up in the sun on the doormat, tucking his nose down between his paws.

I took a quick shower and went down to my office, pulling up the camera feed before I began work. The dog was still sleeping by the door.

A half hour later the dog started having fits. I had an earpiece in, hoping to catch the sound of Stephanie's voice when she came to let the dog in. Instead my work was interrupted by barking and growling, whining and scraping. I looked at the screen.

The dog was on his hind legs, frantically scratching at the door, barking and snarling. He backed off and then flung himself at the screen, desperate to get through it.

I flew down the steps in threes and fours and was in my car in less than thirty seconds, careening toward Slater Street. I speed-dialed Tank while I was driving and asked him to send the nearest men to see what was wrong, but I beat them there.

I burst through the door, calling Stephanie's name. No response.

I looked in the living room… dining room… kitchen… tiny powder room… No sign of her.

Taking the stairs two at a time I kicked open the locked bathroom door without hesitation and almost screamed at what I found there.

Stephanie, in a bathtub filled with water stained bright red by blood.

"Babe," I cried out, but there was no response from her.

I bent and lifted her from the tub, sinking to the floor with her on my lap. Her whole body was pink from the water, but her left wrist was producing weak spurts of blood.

Oh my dear God, I thought, she hit the artery.

I clamped a towel over the wrist and grasped it in one hand, applying pressure while cradling her with my other arm.

My every sense was concentrated on Stephanie, and relief poured through me at the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her chest. She was still breathing.

Before I could shift her enough to get my phone from my pocket I heard a voice calling my name.

"Upstairs," I answered. In a few seconds Vince and Ram were staring in, aghast.

"Vince, find a blanket or something to wrap her in. Ram, get the car. I don't want to wait for an ambulance. We're taking her to St. Francis right now."

In ten minutes we were in the emergency room and a doctor was clamping off the artery and forcing units of blood into Stephanie. I flatly refused to leave her side until they wheeled her off to the operating room to repair the damage.

_oOo_

Four hours later I was sitting at her bedside in a private hospital in Princeton. It was the best psychiatric center in the state, and among the top half dozen in the whole country.

It had taken about an hour to suture the artery and the tissue over it, and then they'd taken me into the recovery room as Stephanie regained consciousness. I had the control room fax over the medical power of attorney Stephanie signed when she came to work for RangeMan so that I could act as her next of kin and make medical decisions.

I'd made good use of the time Stephanie was in surgery to make some phone calls. Morelli first. Voicemail. I tried the police dispatcher, but he didn't answer his page. I left a message that he should call me immediately, that it was urgent, and then called his cell again and left the same message.

Next I called Barbara Foster, explaining the situation and asking for advice. She made some calls and got back to me with arrangements to admit Stephanie to the Princeton Clinic. I'd told them in the ER that it was an accident, but if they found out it was a suicide attempt there was no doubt that the doctors at St. Francis would order a 72-hour hold. I didn't want that to happen in the Burg.

Stephanie only woke up for a moment in the recovery room, just long enough to give me a quizzical stare and say, "Ranger?"

"I'm here, Babe, and I'm going to make sure everything is okay."

I kept a firm hold on her uninjured hand and she just closed her eyes and went back to sleep. I checked her out against medical advice, carried her to the SUV and held her in my lap in the backseat as Vince and Ram drove us to Princeton. She slept through the whole process.

She was still sleeping at 1700 when Morelli returned my call.

_TBC_


	13. Chapters 31 & 32

**Chapter 31**

An hour later Morelli was sitting opposite me in a small, private family waiting room down the hall from Stephanie's room. He'd been shocked speechless when I told him what happened, but during the hour it took him to get to Princeton in the rush-hour traffic, he'd gotten his voice back with a vengeance.

"Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ," were the first words out of his mouth as he came stomping into the room. "Can't you just stay the hell out of our lives?"

"If I'd stayed out of your life," I told him, my voice icy, "right about now you'd be discovering Stephanie's cold, dead body in your bathtub. Tomorrow you'd be spending the day with her parents, making funeral arrangements."

He paled and collapsed into the nearest chair.

"Dear God, what the hell was she thinking?"

"Are you telling me you're surprised? That you had no idea that Stephanie was so depressed that she felt her life was no longer worth living?"

His mouth fell open, and after a moment he clamped it shut with an audible click.

When it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything I continued, "Stephanie has voluntarily committed herself to a 72-hour evaluation period. Dr. Cynthia Marino is the chief of psychiatry here, and she will be developing and implementing a treatment and rehabilitation program for Stephanie."

"What the fuck…?" he began, but I asserted my control of the situation by interrupting him.

"Whether you agree or not, it's going to happen. You've already proven your incompetence when it comes to Stephanie's health. I have a signed and notarized medical power of attorney for Stephanie, and I will make sure she receives the proper treatment."

"You can't do that," he burst out. "I'm her fiancé. I should be making her medical decisions."

"I wasn't aware that Stephanie agreed to marry you," I said, hiding my heartbreak with cold neutrality, "but it doesn't make any difference. My attorney has assured me that no one, not you, not Stephanie's parents, can override my powers when it comes to Stephanie's medical care. And I intend to exercise those powers."

A soft tap-tap on the door interrupted us, and an attractive brunette woman in her mid-forties wearing a white lab coat entered the room. I rose.

"Mr. Manoso?" she inquired, looking at me.

"Dr. Marino, it's a pleasure to meet you. Please call me Carlos. Barbara Foster said to tell you she owes you a New York cheesecake."

She had an infectious grin. "Cindy," she said as she shook my hand. "Barbara and I go way back, and any friend of hers is a friend of mine."

"This is Detective Joseph Morelli of the Trenton Police Department, a _friend_ of Stephanie's. He'll be your major contact for her family."

"Detective," she said, turning to shake his hand.

"Doctor, I'd appreciate it if you'd explain exactly what's happening here," Morelli said.

"Of course. Let's sit down."

_oOo_

I was exhausted and dragging when I got back to my apartment. It was past 2200 and I hadn't had anything to eat all day. I felt weak and sick, wanting nothing more than to collapse into bed, but I knew I should eat something.

I stuck the covered plate Ella had left in my refrigerator into the microwave, grabbed a bottle of water and sat at the breakfast bar thinking about the events of the day.

The 72-hour evaluation period was only the beginning of Stephanie's treatment, according to Dr. Marino. She was certain Stephanie would have to remain at the clinic for weeks, perhaps even months, until her blood chemistry could be regulated with medication. She would not release Stephanie, she told us, until she was certain there was minimal potential for another suicide attempt.

During Stephanie's time in the clinic in addition to the medication she would undergo intensive talk therapy. She needed to process and accept the very traumatic events she'd undergone since being kidnapped. In addition, the professionals at the clinic would work with her on coping techniques for dealing with her difficult family and the other stresses of her life.

Morelli was surly and angry with me for giving the doctor such a complete background on Stephanie, but he knew he had no choice but to agree. I was certain he was still in denial himself about how bad her condition was, but the very near miss today had shaken him, and he told the doctor he just wanted what was best for Stephanie.

I didn't go in to see Stephanie again before leaving the hospital. She was awake and I knew she wouldn't want to see me. I'd have preferred she didn't know I was involved at all. She already hated me, and rescuing her from what she'd obviously decided was the only way out was just going to intensify that feeling.

I did, however, watch through the one-way glass as Morelli went in to see her. He had strict instructions from the doctor not to say or do anything to upset her further. He was to express love and support and then get the hell out of there, and she'd be allowed no more visitors until the doctors deemed her strong enough, at least two or three weeks.

I had to give Morelli credit. He kissed and hugged Stephanie and told her he loved her and wanted her to get better, and that was it. She was apathetic when he hugged her and as soon as he released her she turned her back on him, her focus concentrated on the exact spot I was standing behind the one-way glass. She stared and rubbed the back of her neck.

I knew she couldn't see me, but I wondered if she could feel me watching her. I had that hum running through my body that always alerted me to her presence. It was conspicuous in its absence when she was so addicted to heroin, but now it was back, even stronger than before. Was it possible that her brush with death and my foiling her effort to end her life had intensified our connection?

The beeping of the microwave interrupted my reverie and I uncovered my dinner, staring at it with distaste. Not that it didn't look delicious, because it did, but I had no appetite whatsoever.

Knowing I had to eat to keep up my strength, I forced down a few bites, but after a while I gave up and scraped the food into the garbage disposal. Just as I was putting the rinsed plate into the dishwasher my stomach revolted and I raced for the bathroom.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I vomited up far more than I'd eaten today. When I finally finished retching, I opened my eyes to a basin filled with bright red blood.

I was dizzy and weak, and I vomited blood once more before collapsing on the floor. Pressing my cheek to the cool ceramic tile I thought how easy it would be to just let go, allow the pain to end once and for all.

The thought was seductive, and I entertained it for a couple minutes. Stephanie would be so much better off without me in her life.

But no, I knew that was an illusion. Stephanie would have been better off if I'd never come into her life to begin with. But she'd already suffered unspeakable horrors as a result of her connection to me. I needed to stick around to assure that it never happened again.

I was weak, but I managed to get my phone out of my pocket and press speed dial for Tank.

_oOo_

**Chapter 32**

_Six weeks later—Wednesday, September 3_

I sat in my office trying to concentrate on financial reports for the first eight months of the year, but not having much success. Really I was waiting for Dr. Marino's weekly call. She'd reported last week that Stephanie's blood chemistry was regulating and her mood was improving. She'd been working through her feelings in daily sessions with Dr. Carole Hughes, the head of the clinical psychology department at Princeton University. There was a chance the doctors would release her this week.

I'd spent four days in the Princeton Clinic myself, two floors below Stephanie, after undergoing emergency surgery to repair a bleeding ulcer. It was ironic, I thought, that on the very day Stephanie had surgery to repair her artery I'd required surgery for arterial bleeding myself.

My last day at the clinic I went for a walk in the halls and ended up on the secured psychiatric floor, leaning against the one-way glass of Stephanie's room, watching her nap. Her nearness generated a low-level buzz in my chest and after a few minutes she awoke, sitting up and staring at the spot I was standing, her hand on the back of her neck. There was no way she could see me, but she felt me as certainly as I could feel her.

When a nurse found me and asked how I got up there, I kept it simple and told her I walked. She shook her head and had an orderly escort me back to my room.

Now I was on an old-man regimen of pills three times a day to heal the ulcers and prevent them from recurring.

My weight had bottomed out at about 140 pounds, sixty less than the normal I'd maintained for the past decade, and had started to creep back up just a little bit. The relief of knowing Stephanie was in a safe place, being well cared for, did wonders to ease my stress levels.

My frame of mind had been bolstered by half a dozen weekly sessions with Dr. Gary Sanders, the clinical psych professor at Penn recommended by Barbara Foster. Talking with him had helped me accept the fact that, although my dark past had shaped me, I still have ultimate control over who I am today and what I will be for the rest of my life.

While I would never stop blaming myself for what happened to Stephanie, I was learning to live with it and go on, determined to try to make amends somehow.

_oOo_

"We're releasing Stephanie on Friday," Dr. Marino reported. "And Carlos, I need to tell you that she's revoked your medical power of attorney. Detective Morelli had the papers drawn up and brought them in for her to sign as soon I agreed she was competent to make legal decisions. Technically I shouldn't even be talking to you now, but I thought as a matter of courtesy you had a right to know how well she's doing."

Fuck.

"Will she still be seeing you and Carole, even though she's going home?" I asked, hoping her courtesy extended to giving me an answer.

"Oh, yes. We've scheduled her for Tuesday and Friday sessions with Carole for now, to help her cope with getting back to real life, and I'll be seeing her once a month for blood chemistry review and prescriptions."

"Thank you, Cindy, for all you've done for Stephanie," I said, ending the call.

Fuck.

_oOo_

Friday I spent the day glued to the monitors, waiting for Stephanie to come home to Trenton. Her apartment lease had ended as of September first and Dillon called me a month ago to ask if I wanted to renew it for her.

After some considerable thought I called him back and told him no. It wasn't safe, and I didn't want Stephanie to go back there and be reminded of her kidnapping and all the pain she'd endured because of me. She was better off not being alone. I forced myself to put it into thought: She was better off living with Morelli.

They didn't arrive home until nearly 2100. I'd checked, and Morelli hadn't gone to pick her up until his work day was finished.

Selfish bastard, I thought, furious. I'd have been there as early as they let me.

But she's not yours, I reminded myself, and never will be. She's better off with him. Keep repeating it over and over and maybe you'll begin to believe it.

Morelli got out of the car first, carrying a pizza box, and hurried to open the front door to let the dog out. Stephanie exited the car under her own power, turning just in time to be almost knocked over by the dog, his front paws on her shoulders, joyful tongue lapping at her face.

"Down, Bob." The sound of her voice was heaven to my ears. "Good boy." She rubbed his ears and then turned and grabbed a bag of groceries and walked into the house.

I spent the rest of the evening listening, since the windows and doors were all open, but there was very little to hear. Polite dinner conversation, please pass me a napkin, do you want another piece of pizza, no thanks.

And at bedtime, "Not tonight, Joe. I don't think I'm ready yet. Please give me a few days."

Silence, then his voice, "Mmmm…"

More silence, then Stephanie: "Please, Joe."

He sounded a little miffed. "Okay, Cupcake, if that's what you want. Whenever you're ready I'll be waiting."

_oOo_

Monday morning Morelli left for work at 0700, calling good-bye to Stephanie. At 0830 her sister Valerie arrived and stayed until 1500.

On Tuesday morning it was Stephanie's mother picking her up at 0900 in the car and driving away. They returned at 1500, Stephanie thanking her mother for driving her and for the nice lunch. She must have gone for her appointment with Carole.

Wednesday morning a taxicab driven by Frank Plum dropped off Grandma Mazur, returning to pick up both her and Stephanie at 1700. Morelli brought her home at 1930 with a bag I recognized as leftovers from dinner at the Plums'.

Thursday Stephanie's best friend Mary Lou picked her up at 1000. They returned at 1430, carrying multiple shopping bags into the house, and Mary Lou left a short time later.

Friday it was Valerie's turn again, and they were gone all morning, most likely at Princeton for Stephanie's appointment.

Saturday and Sunday Morelli was at home with her, and Monday the babysitting resumed.

_oOo_

A month after Stephanie came home Tank reported that Connie had heard rumors of Morelli buying an engagement ring, and a week after that it was all over the Burg. He'd proposed on her birthday. They were engaged. A spring wedding was being planned.

I continued to keep an eye on the house almost every waking moment, even though the cameras were also displayed on the control room monitors. The windows were open and the bedtime fucking sounds resumed, but all of the groaning and verbalizations came from Morelli. Stephanie was uncharacteristically silent, no moans of pleasure, no crying out with orgasms, the complete opposite of the night I spent with her.

I was relieved when the weather got cold enough that the windows were closed.

Another month went by and one day in early November, after being picked up by her father in the taxicab, Stephanie drove back on her own in her old piece-of-shit red Nissan. It had remained parked at her apartment until the lease expired, and at that point it was towed to a garage where it had remained until now. The RangeMan GPS tracker was still on it and functioning.

That week she began driving herself to the Princeton Clinic on Tuesdays and Fridays, leaving around 0900 and returning home at 1200. One or two days a week someone either came and visited her or took her out. They were taking no chances with Stephanie, and I was very glad to see her family and friends being so supportive.

But there was no sign of her returning to work. She remained cocooned in the house on Slater Street, alone.

Thanksgiving week Stephanie only went to a single appointment on Tuesday.

After Thanksgiving it appeared that she stopped having bi-weekly appointments. The family babysitting ended and she was on her own. Several weeks passed in which she didn't leave the house at all except with Morelli for Sunday dinners at her parents' house.

_oOo_

_Wednesday, December 17_

No matter what else I was doing, the monitors were a constant in my life. I kept telling myself I had to end my obsession with watching the cameras at Morelli's house, but I hadn't yet been able to tear myself away for more than an hour at a time.

A week before Christmas a taxicab picked up Stephanie just before 1200. It didn't look like the cab her father had been driving, but I wondered if his was in for maintenance.

I watched all afternoon, waiting for her to return, but she hadn't yet arrived when Morelli came home from work at 1930, later than usual. He entered the house, letting the dog out the front door, and then I saw him open the back door and look out at Stephanie's car sitting there in the alley behind the house.

The door closed again and fifteen minutes later my cell phone rang. Morelli.

"What?" I was curt, not happy to hear from him.

"Manoso, do you know where Stephanie is? She's gone."

_TBC in Part IV—Somewhere I Belong—And I promise this is the last evil cliffhanger!_


	14. Chapters 33, 34 & 35

**_WARNING: Still a little angsty, with a little sexual content. Of course if you've gotten this far, warnings are probably no longer necessary!_**

_Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money. __Recognizable characters belong to Janet Evanovich. Song lyrics belong to Linkin Park._

_oOo_

**Part IV—Somewhere I Belong**

_I wanna heal, I wanna feel what I thought was never real  
I wanna let go of the pain I've held so long  
Erase all the pain till it's gone,  
I wanna heal, I wanna feel like I'm close to something real  
I wanna find something I've wanted all along  
Somewhere I belong  
—Linkin Park (Meteora)_

**Chapter 33**

_The same day—Wednesday, December 17_

"What do you mean, gone?" I asked Morelli, my heart leaping up through my throat pounding against the top of my head, threatening to blow it off.

"She left me a note. Hand written, her writing. It says, 'I can't do this anymore.' And she left her engagement ring and my house key. But her car is still out back."

I felt a bolt of triumph, instantaneously replaced by sick fear.

"Did you check with her family?"

"Yes, and Mary Lou. None of them heard a word from her all day."

"Did you try her cell phone?"

"She didn't take her handbag. Just her wallet."

Fuck.

"Let me do some checking and I'll call you back," I said.

I was still in my office, and I ran the recording back to the point where Stephanie left the house, zooming in on the taxi. I could see now that it wasn't her father, and the high-tech image was good enough for me to read the company name and cab number off the vehicle.

I called the cab company. "This is Ranger Manoso of RangeMan Enterprises. We have a missing person, possible abduction, who left home in your cab number 7485 at 1155 this morning. Could you please give me the drop-off location?"

"Just a moment, please," the dispatcher responded.

Silence for several minutes, during which I paced back and forth in front of my desk, praying a silent prayer. Dear God help me be strong, for Stephanie. Don't let me fall apart.

After eons a different voice came on the line. "This is Abner Sartorio, the night manager. Can I help you?"

I repeated my request, telling him it was a possible abduction and throwing in my Defense Department credentials for good measure, offering to fax them over.

"That won't be necessary. I know about RangeMan. You guys provide security for my brother's jewelry store. Sartorio's on South Broad. Just a minute, let me look up the log book…. Uh… 7485?… Uh… Pickup 11:55 a.m. at 387 Slater Street, drop-off 12:20 at Stark and Tyler. Fare 12.50 cash."

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

One of the worst parts of town, the corner near the Stark Street Gym where Benito Ramirez used to work out before he was killed trying to break into Stephanie's apartment.

"I'd like to speak with the driver. Can you reach him right now?"

"He's off duty, but let me see if I can get him at home. Hold on."

Another few hours of pacing, and then he was back. "I'm conferencing in Pedro Gutierrez, the driver." Clicking and then the manager's voice again. "Pedro?"

"Si, I'm here," in Spanish.

I answered him in the same language. "Pedro, this is Ranger Manoso of RangeMan Enterprises. The woman you drove from Slater Street to Stark and Tyler around noon today has possibly been abducted. What can you tell me about her?"

"Ah, yes, I remember. Very pretty, classy-looking lady, skinny, curly hair, wearing jeans and a black jacket. Sad. She didn't make any sound during the ride, but when she paid me I saw the tears."

"Did she say anything at all while she was in the cab with you?"

"Just Stark and Tyler. I drove and she sat quietly. She gave me a big tip when I dropped her off, and she said thank you, very polite. That's when I knew she was crying."

"Did you see which way she went when she got out of the cab?"

"No, she didn't go anywhere. She just stood there on the corner and watched me make a U-turn and drive away. I kept looking in my mirror, not feeling quite right about leaving such a nice-looking lady in that part of town, but she never moved."

"Was there anyone else on the street?"

"Just a couple of hookers a block down Stark toward Comstock. One tall and Latino wearing purple feathers and black leather, might have been a guy, and one short, black, lots of cleavage, wearing a real fluffy gold-and-black tiger-stripe jacket and short red skirt."

"Is there anything else you can remember?"

"No, that's all."

"Thank you, Pedro. If you think of something that might help us find our lady, please call RangeMan." I gave him the number of the control room and hung up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck._

I dialed Tank. "Stephanie's disappeared again. She took a taxi to the corner of Stark and Tyler. Call everyone available and we'll meet there at 2030." I hesitated for a moment, then added, "Ask Lula if she'll come along. It's not that far from her place, and she might still know some of the neighborhood people."

I disconnected and then dialed Morelli back. "She took a taxi to the corner of Stark and Tyler. I've got a team assembling. Pull in everyone you can and meet us as soon as possible. We'll be there in twenty."

"How the hell did you find that out so fast?" Morelli asked.

"Got the taxi number from the recording off your front camera. Called the cab company. And after you rally the troops, call the phone company and see if Stephanie made or received any calls this morning."

"Already done. Waiting for a callback. See you in twenty minutes," he replied.

I had Vince pull a full-face view of Stephanie from the security footage from Morelli's house. It was from three weeks ago when she returned home from her last Princeton appointment, and she was wearing the same black parka as when she left today. Vince printed out several dozen 5x7s that we could show around as we interviewed people.

I also took a few minutes to print out a large-scale map of the area from the internet and mark it off into grids to help us divide the search area. Then I put on a heavy wool coat and tucked my hair under a black watch cap before climbing into my Cayenne and setting off to find Stephanie. Again.

_oOo_

**Chapter 34**

Luminous stars twinkled from a crystal-clear black ice sky, and a brilliant moon lit up Stark Street, disguising its destitution. Our breath created clouds of vapor that billowed and dissipated as we congregated under a flickering streetlight. I had a total of fifteen from RangeMan counting myself—Tank and Lula, Bobby and Lester, Hal and Ram, Manny and Zero, Vince and Woody, Cal and Junior, and Brett and Binkie.

Morelli had eight off-duty cops, including Stephanie's close friend Eddie Gazarra, Robin Russell, Carl Costanza and his partner Big Dog, Brian Simon, Marty Sanchez, Tom Bell, and even Picky Gaspick.

Morelli was clamped down tight, vibrating with fear or fury or a combination of the two, so I took control of the search team.

I explained the situation, describing the two hookers the cabbie had seen, and assigned each set of partners to a section of the grid, passing out copies of the map and photos. Their purpose was to interview people on the streets, visit any businesses that were still open this late, and knock on doors. Any leads, including names and/or locations for the two hookers, were to be reported immediately to me via cell phone.

I asked Lula and Tank to try to locate the hookers by using whatever contacts Lula had in the neighborhood. Because I'd remained sequestered in the office for the past four months, it was the first time Lula had seen me since before Miami, and she valiantly tried to hide her shock at my altered appearance.

"Sure thing, Batman." Lula's face and voice were serious. "We'll start with my friend Jackie. She's still working these streets, so she might know who the two ho's are."

She whipped out her cell phone and they set off down the street, leaving Morelli and me standing there on the corner.

"Did you bring the note?" I asked, wanting to see it.

Morelli pulled a plastic baggie from his pocket. It certainly looked like Stephanie's handwriting.

"The tape showed Stephanie leaving the house under her own power," I volunteered. "Did you hear back from the phone company?"

He was despondent. "Yeah. The only call in or out of the house all day was her calling the cab company at eleven thirty."

"How about her cell? Did you find it and check it for calls?"

"Steph doesn't have a new cell phone yet. She said she was planning to go to the phone store in the mall and get one, but she hasn't gotten around to it."

I was appalled and let it creep into my voice. "Do you mean to tell me you've been letting her drive around in that piece-of-shit Nissan alone without a cell phone?"

"She hasn't been driving it."

"What about her doctor appointments?"

"Her family has been taking her."

"Morelli, I've looked at the security camera footage. Her family hasn't driven her anywhere in over a month. She was driving herself for a while but she stopped. She hasn't left the house since Thanksgiving except for Sunday night dinners."

"What?! You're shitting me. She's supposed to be going to Princeton twice a week."

I let my voice go glacial. "You fucking asshole. You don't care enough to even check on your so-called _fiancée._ You don't deserve her."

His chin came up. "And you think you do, you fucking psychopath?"

I was considering whether decking him would be helpful or harmful to our search when my cell phone rang. Tank.

"Talk," I ordered, my eyes still holding Morelli's.

"Lula got names and locations for both of the hookers that were out there at noon. The one in the feathers and leather is LaShondina, no last name, transvestite who lives on Stark between Rose and Fountain, over top a video store. The other goes by Pussycat Princess, lives on Gordon Street."

"Outstanding work. Tell Lula thanks. You two see if you can find Pussycat Princess and we'll go after LaShondina. Call all the RangeMan teams with the intel, and I'll have Morelli call his guys, but for now they should remain on their grids."

I repeated the information to Morelli and he began making calls as we climbed into my Cayenne and drove down Stark. I pulled to the curb in front of the video store and we found the door that led to the upstairs apartments.

Nobody answered the first door. The second was opened by a stoned-looking guy wearing nothing except a huge pair of jarring flowered boxers that hung like a tent on his emaciated body.

"LaShondina? Sure, lives upstairs, 3C, but she wouldn't be there now. Spends evenings over at State and Warren. Lotta legish…" he stumbled over the word and regrouped, "legislators… want what LaShondina has to offer, know what I mean?"

We knocked at 3C anyway, but no response.

"Go down to the car," I said to Morelli. He gave me a look, knowing what I was about to do, but turned and left anyway, shaking his head.

It only took me a couple seconds to pick the lock, but there was nothing helpful in the apartment, just lots of extra-tall hooker clothes and feathered boas in all colors.

Minutes later we were at State and Warren. Nobody there. I parked at the curb just down the block and within five minutes a Lincoln Navigator pulled up and LaShondina swung out and strutted back to the corner.

We got out of the car and approached her.

"What can I do for you, _officer?_" she sneered.

I turned to Morelli. "Would you excuse us for a couple minutes?"

Morelli held both hands in the air, palms out, turned and walked back to the Cayenne.

I stared hard at LaShondina, letting her see all the frigid barrenness I could muster. "Do you know who I am?" I asked.

She nodded, her prominent Adam's apple bobbing up and sliding back down as she swallowed.

"We're looking for a woman, and we have information that you know where she is. You can tell me now or you can tell me later, in a cell in the basement of my building." I held out the picture of Stephanie.

"Hey, no sweat there, Mr. Ranger, sir. I saw your little woman, sure I did. She was on Stark today. She came down to Pussycat and me where we was just mindin' our own business and asked us where she could find some goods to do up. She offered a double sawbuck so we told her."

Oh dear Lord, I thought, she was looking for drugs. We needed to find her, and now, before she OD'd.

I kept my voice even. "What did you tell her?"

"We told her down to South and Oxford, Biggie and the Bear could hook her up."

"And did she go there?"

"Well now, Mr. Ranger, sir, I can't say for sure, but that's the direction she was headed."

I pulled a hundred out of my pocket and held it so she could see it.

"Anything else I need to know?"

"No, sir, told you all I know."

I handed her the hundred and raced for the truck.

_oOo_

**Chapter 35**

We were at South and Oxford in a matter of minutes.

"Wait here," I said to Morelli. "They all know you, and they're not going to talk to a cop. I'll call when I get the information."

He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but then nodded and settled back in the seat, pulling out his cell.

I knew Biggie and the Bear, having done some business with them during a large sting operation run by the DEA. When their supplier got picked up they never suspected I was in on it with the Feds. They were both convicted, but as low-level dealers they were back on the streets in a year.

As I rounded the corner where they dealt out of the trunk of their car I slowed to a saunter, shoving my hands casually in my pockets.

"Heeey, there, if it ain't Ranger, big bad honcho. What the hell happen to ya, man? Yaw look like shit." Biggie was a short but enormously obese black man who must have spent all his ill-gotten gains maintaining his hugeness. The Bear, on the other hand, was rail-skinny, jittery, always in motion. He'd gotten his nickname because legend had it that when fucking a woman he roared like a bear.

I gave them both the empty El Trucidor look. "I'm looking for a woman."

"Man, we got all kinds of women. What you looking for, man? Black, white, pussy, dick? We got them all."

"This woman," I said pokerfaced, holding out the photo. "She was looking for some shit this afternoon. Her old man's paying me to bring her back. I'd be sure to show my… uhh… gratitude, to anyone who helped me find her."

"Oh, yeah, man, we saw her. She picked up a bag and a virgin sharp. She had the cash."

"Where'd she go?"

"She lookin' for a place to party so we done sent her back to the farm."

"She still back there?"

"Ain't seen her leave."

I walked past them toward a large abandoned warehouse. The farm. The place the hypes went to shoot up.

I was so filled with anxiety that I felt physically ill. In spite of the acid-neutralizing medications I was still on, the acid bubbled up into my throat, bringing with it the acrid taste of bile.

It was pitch black and freezing inside the warehouse, and I pulled a penlight from my pocket.

Patience, I told myself. Exercise caution. You don't want to miss her in the dark.

Taking my time, picking my way, I turned to the right and began to walk the perimeter of the building, flashing the light on faces as I passed the sleeping addicts. They were slumped against the walls and huddled up against pillars, mostly unconscious, but my light elicited an occasional groan. On a night as cold as this there'd be some that wouldn't wake up.

I reached the back wall and turned left, my foot disturbing a rat that went scuttling away, looking for easy pickings among the shooters.

As I approached the other rear corner and was preparing to turn toward the front of the building again, a tremor passed up my spine. I stopped, flashing my light at the corner. A sleeping body huddled there under a filthy blanket.

I moved closer, muttering a prayer under my breath. I bent over and pulled the blanket back, revealing open, dead eyes.

My breath huffed out a steamy cloud of relief. Not Stephanie.

I still felt the vibration resonating across my flesh, and I turned, sweeping my light in a wide arc.

There.

Slumped against a pillar near the center of the room was a shape wearing a black parka. Not daring to hope, I swung the light up. Wild brown curls.

Four long steps and I was there, studying her, desperate to discern a faint rise and fall of the chest.

I touched her face with my fingers. Icy cold. I put my ear to her nose and heard a sound more beautiful than Bach or Beethoven, sweeter than Schubert or Chopin. It was faint, but there. She was breathing.

I opened my coat, picked her up in my arms, crushed her against my chest and ran for the door.

I don't even remember passing Biggie and the Bear, but I was at the Cayenne, pulling open the passenger door and shoving the keys at Morelli.

"You drive. Helene Fuld is the closest."

Morelli hoisted himself over into the driver's seat and started the engine. I cranked the heat as high as it would go and squeezed Stephanie against me, pulling my coat around us both, willing her to absorb some of my body heat.

"What the hell happened to her?" he asked as he careened around corners toward the hospital.

"I don't know," I lied, "but she's half-frozen."

At Helene Fuld I jumped out of the car with Stephanie and barked "Hypothermia" at the triage nurse. She took a quick look and gestured me into a small room, pulling heated blankets from a warmer and spreading them on the bed. I laid Stephanie down on them and the nurse swaddled her with more warm blankets.

By the time Morelli caught up with us, Stephanie was starting to warm up and her breathing was a little deeper. We replaced the cooling blankets with more heated ones and the nurse began taking vitals.

"She fell asleep in her car," I outright lied when the nurse asked me what happened. "She's on pain pills for a back condition, and they must have knocked her out." A look of shock harpooned across Morelli's face before he covered it with blankness.

I helped pull Stephanie's right arm out of her sleeve so the nurse could take her blood pressure. I was relieved when the nurse inserted the IV into the back of her left hand, keeping the warm blankets snug around her. It would be best if they didn't find the needle marks on the inside of her left elbow. The doctor came in and gave her a cursory exam, nodded, and told us she was going to be fine.

I took care of the insurance information and then sat with Stephanie for about an hour until she began to show signs of awakening. Morelli and I were on each side of her when her eyes opened, revealing all that blue. Her pupils were small, but not the telltale pinpoint pupils like when I found her in Miami. The single dose of heroin wouldn't have been enough to renew her physical addiction, although mentally, emotionally, she might crave more.

"Are you crazy, Cupcake? What the hell did you do?" Joe was in her face the minute her eyes focused on him. She winced and her eyes wandered to the ceiling and then to me.

"Babe," I said, framing her face in both my hands, trying to let my feelings for her show in my eyes. "It's going to be okay. Don't worry. Everything will be all right."

"Ranger," she slurred. "Take me home."

"I will, Babe. I'm going to go check you out right now."

I returned fifteen minutes later to find the nurse had removed the IV and Stephanie was asleep again. Morelli still had my keys and I said, "Pull the Cayenne up to the door. I'll carry Stephanie out in a few minutes."

He opened his mouth to argue and then seemed to think better of it, pulling the keys from his jacket pocket and stomping out the door.

The second he was out of sight I had Stephanie enfolded in more warm blankets and in my arms. I carried her down the hallway toward the back of the building and to the rear exit where Tank and Lula waited.

_TBC_


	15. Chapters 36 & 37

**Chapter 36**

_The next day—Thursday, December 18_

I spent the night in my bed holding Stephanie, her sweet scent a balm for my spirit. She slept long and deep, and I slept better than I had in the seven-and-a-half months since she was kidnapped.

I slipped out of bed at 0600 and dressed in my normal winter apparel of cargoes and long-sleeved t-shirt. I wanted to make sure she didn't wake up and find me in bed with her. The memory of her telling me she never wanted to see me again, although five months old, was fresh and painful in my mind, and I wasn't sure how she'd feel when she woke up.

Last night after I tucked her into bed dressed in one of my t-shirts and a clean pair of RangeMan panties that still remained in my closet, I returned the angry phone call from Morelli.

"Stephanie asked me to take her home, and that's exactly what I did," I told him.

"She meant home to my house," he sputtered. "And besides, she was high on something."

"I don't believe she meant your house, Morelli. And you've proven yet again that you're incompetent to care for her. I'm going to take care of her for as long as she lets me, and if she chooses to go back to you then I'll deliver her myself. But I'm not going to do anything from here on out without her input and approval." I snapped my phone shut almost hard enough to break it.

I made a pot of coffee and at 0800 I fixed a cup with cream and sugar the way Stephanie liked it and carried it into the bedroom.

"Babe, wake up." I blew across the top of the coffee mug toward her face, wafting the scent to her nostrils. "Stephanie, it's morning. Time to get up."

Her eyes fluttered open and confusion reigned when she saw me. "Ranger?"

"Yeah, Babe, it's me. Here's your coffee. Can you sit up?"

She pushed herself up against the headboard and reached for the coffee. After a few sips she started to look a little more alert. "What am I doing here?" she asked. "Where's Joe?"

"Do you remember what happened yesterday?"

She stared blind-eyed into her coffee cup for a moment and then comprehension flew across her face. "I left Joe," she said, looking back up at me.

"You sure did." I allowed myself a hint of a smile.

"Oh, God, I don't have anyplace to live. I just can't bear the thought of going home to my parents." Her eyes filled with tears. "My mother's going to freak when she finds out."

"Babe, you can stay here as long as you want to." I was serious, praying, no, begging God that she'd choose to stay with me.

"Ranger, that's really nice of you, but I don't think I could impose."

"I want you here. Stay with me. Please."

She started to open her mouth and I knew she was going to say she couldn't, so I tried a preemptive strike. "Don't make up your mind right now. You've got an appointment in less than two hours, so why don't you take a shower and get dressed. You can think about it later."

"What appointment?" she asked, sipping at her coffee again.

"You're going to see Dr. Marino at ten and Carole at eleven. Then I'm taking you out to lunch. So hop in the shower. I asked Ella to bring breakfast up at eight-thirty and she's making pancakes. You don't want to miss out on Ella's pancakes. They're the best."

I took the half-empty cup from her and extended my other hand. She slipped hers into it, as trusting as a child, and I felt like weeping. I walked her to the bathroom door, used an arm around her neck to pull her to me so I could kiss the top of her head, and then released her.

"Remember, breakfast in twenty minutes," I reminded her as I watched the bathroom door swing shut.

I was desperate to ask Stephanie if she could ever forgive me for what happened to her, if she could be my friend again, or even more, but I knew I shouldn't push her. That would send her away, I was certain of it. I had to give her time to get used to me again.

Fifteen minutes later with a brisk tap on the door Ella came bustling in pushing a wheeled cart. "Macy's opened at six this morning, so I picked up some clothes for Stephanie. I wasn't sure about her size since she's lost so much weight, so I bought several different sizes. As soon as I see how these fit her I'll get some more things. I bought her some makeup and hair products, too."

"I really appreciate it, Ella. We'll let you know about the sizes."

She set the breakfast tray on the counter and pulled several bags from the lower shelf of the cart. "Do you want me to hang these in the closet?"

"No thanks. Stephanie should be getting out of the shower any minute now. I'll just put them on the bed for her to choose from."

As Ella left the apartment I took the bags into the bedroom and pulled the comforter up over the bed so I could lay out the clothes. Three pairs of jeans in three different sizes, and half a dozen tops in assorted colors and styles. Three sets of matching bras and panties. Black drawstring yoga pants and a matching long-sleeved t-shirt. A smaller handled bag overflowing with cosmetics, hair gels and other feminine beauty products.

The shower stopped and I hurried back out, closing the bedroom door behind me.

A few minutes later Stephanie wandered out to the kitchen with a towel around her head, looking as small as a child with my terrycloth robe puddling on the floor around her bare feet.

"Ready for breakfast, Babe?" I asked her, and a tiny smile graced her lips when she saw me uncovering the tray. There was fresh-squeezed orange juice along with pancakes, a bowl of fresh fruit, and bagels with lox and cream cheese. It looked like enough food to feed a family of six.

We sat side by side on the stools at the breakfast bar, drinking more coffee and eating, both comfortable with silence. Feeling honestly hungry for the first time in over seven months, I ate fruit and two whole-grain pancakes. Stephanie doused a pancake with the syrup Ella had included and ate almost the whole thing.

I felt more content than I'd been since the last time she'd stayed here, the domesticity of sharing the morning meal lightening the burden I'd carried for so long.

_oOo_

**Chapter 37**

"There are some things for you on the bed," I said when we finished eating. "Ella went shopping."

"Really? But it's so early."

"Christmastime, Babe. Ella said Macy's opened at six."

She remained on the stool, and after a minute I stood and put an arm around her to ease her to her feet. Keeping my arm around her shoulders I walked her into the bedroom and over to the bed.

"Get ready," I said, brushing my lips against her forehead. "We need to leave in about twenty minutes."

"Okay."

Very little emotion in her expression, and no panicked words about taming her hair. Not even close to the pre-kidnapping Stephanie, I thought with dejection.

As I was cleaning up the kitchen, rinsing dishes, loading the dishwasher and putting the leftover food in the refrigerator, my phone rang. Morelli.

"Talk," I ordered.

"I want to speak with Stephanie," he gritted out, furious.

"She's getting dressed right now, and I'm taking her to Princeton to the doctor in a few minutes. I'll have her call you this afternoon."

"Fuck that. I want to talk to her now, and then she needs to call her mother."

"This afternoon," I repeated and disconnected.

Three minutes later my phone rang again. The caller ID showed the Plum residence.

"Yes?" I was pissed but did my best to be polite.

"Mr. Manoso, this is Helen Plum."

"Yes, Mrs. Plum?" I kept my voice light and matter of fact.

"Could I please speak with Stephanie?"

"She's busy right now, and we have to leave in a few minutes for her doctor appointment. I'll ask her to call you back this afternoon when we get back from Princeton."

"I'd like to speak with her now for a minute."

"This afternoon," I repeated. "I'll make sure she calls you."

I closed the phone, ending the call. It immediately rang again and I pushed the button to send it to voicemail. Then I programmed the phone to forward my calls to the control room downstairs, notifying the men on duty that I would be offline for the morning and would check in after lunch.

_oOo_

It took us forty-five minutes to get through all the holiday shopping traffic on the way to Princeton, and Stephanie was silent almost the whole way. She sat with her hands clasped together in her lap, but the closer we got to the clinic the more she twisted her fingers together until she was wringing her hands. Finally I couldn't stand it another minute.

"Babe, don't worry. Everything is going to be okay." I reached my right hand over and engulfed her left, bringing it to my thigh and holding it there.

She just sighed and squirmed in her seat.

After a few more minutes she said in a small voice. "I screwed up."

"Everybody makes mistakes," I told her. "It's going to be fine."

"I was supposed to see Cindy two weeks ago. I missed my appointment."

"That's why we're going now."

"I ran out of pills."

"We'll get you more."

"And I was supposed to go talk to Carole and I didn't."

"You can talk to her today."

My nonjudgmental tone seemed to soothe her, and she relaxed back into the seat, her fingers curling into my palm.

_oOo_

When the nurse called Stephanie's name she huddled into her chair, not responding.

"Stephanie," the nurse said again, looking at her. "Dr. Marino is ready for you now."

She still showed no sign of moving, so I stood and held my hand out to her. "Come on, Babe. I told you everything is going to be fine, and I meant it. Have I ever lied to you?"

She looked up at my face and then took my hand, allowing me to pull her up. Clutching my hand with both of hers like a drowning person clutches a lifeline she said, "Will you come in with me?"

"Of course, if you want me to."

"Please." Her voice was pleading, almost desperate.

Cindy was waiting in her office, and her eyes lasered me when I walked through the door, Stephanie still clutching my hand. I sat Stephanie down in a comfortable chair and then moved back toward the door.

"Ranger!" Stephanie's voice sounded almost panicky. "You said you'd stay with me."

I stepped back and put a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay, Babe. I thought you just wanted me to walk you in, but if you want me to stay I will. As long as it's okay with Cindy."

Cindy looked from me to Stephanie. "Carlos can stay if you'll sign a HIPA privacy release form."

Stephanie nodded and Cindy pulled a pre-printed sheet out of a drawer, signing as a witness to Stephanie's signature and placing the form in a thick folder on her desk. Stephanie's chart.

I'd talked with Cindy last night while Stephanie was still in the emergency room, telling her what happened. Seeing Stephanie's distress, Cindy began with routine matters. What prescriptions did Stephanie need? All of them. How long had she been out of medicine? Two weeks.

"I know I told you this back when you were first released from the hospital, but it's time for a refresher course," Cindy said. "I can't emphasize enough the importance of continuing your medication on a regular basis. It will help keep your mood stabilized, and allow you to get back to your life."

Stephanie looked down at her hands clasped in her lap, fingers threaded together, knuckles white. "I know I messed up. I was all alone in that house all day long, day after day, and I just didn't have the energy to go to the drug store. I promise it won't happen again."

"And are you doing something positive to improve your situation so it doesn't happen again?"

"I broke off my engagement to Joe and am moving out of his house. I'm not quite sure where I'm going to live, but… I guess I'll stay with Ranger for a few days until I can decide…" She looked at me. "If that's okay with you?"

"Of course, Babe," I said, trying to keep my voice casual and disguise the relief I was feeling. "I told you that you can stay as long as you want, and I meant it."

She relaxed back into her chair and sighed. "Okay then, that's settled."

_oOo_

Stephanie was much less nervous when we reached Carole's office, going in readily when they called her and leaving me in the waiting room. She came out looking relaxed and almost cheerful, and we both ate well at the little Italian restaurant where we stopped for lunch.

About halfway back to Trenton Stephanie again began twisting her fingers together. I reached over and took her hand again. "What's bothering you, Babe?"

"Is it really okay if I stay with you for a while? I don't want to be a burden."

"It's more than okay. I really want you, for as long as you're willing to stay with me."

I wanted to say more, to beg her to stay with me forever, tell her again how sorry I was for what happened to her, how much I cared about her, but I restrained myself. Not the right time yet. I knew we'd have to work it through sooner or later, but for now I just wanted to take care of her, to see if there was any chance of bringing the old Stephanie back.

_TBC_


	16. Chapters 38 & 39

**Chapter 38**

_The same day_

"It's his voicemail," Stephanie whispered to me, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with a hand, squirming with discomfort on the couch beside me. "What should I say?"

"Just tell him you're fine and that you're going to stay with me for a few days until you decide what to do."

"Uh… Joe… This is Steph. I'm at Ranger's. I went to the doctor and got new prescriptions, and I'm doing fine… I'm… uh… going to stay here for a few days… uh… until I decide what to do… Okay… uh… I guess that's all… Bye, Joe."

She closed the phone with a huge sigh of relief.

I decided to leave my calls forwarding to the control room so that if Joe called back he wouldn't disturb her. If anything urgent came in that I had to deal with, the control room would buzz me on the intercom.

"That was good, Babe. Now your mother."

"I really don't want to talk to her," she said, looking forlorn.

I reached over and hauled her into my lap, folding my arms around her. "Do you think waiting will make it any easier?"

"No, the longer I wait the harder it will be."

"Might as well get it over with, then."

She curled against my chest, snuggling her head into my neck as she dialed the phone.

"Hi, Mom," she said in a small voice. "It's me."

Mrs. Plum was so strident and Stephanie was so close to me that I could hear every word.

"Stephanie Plum, what do you think you're doing? Joseph said that _Ranger,_" she spat the word out like it was poison, "took you away. You need to go back to Joseph's house right now."

I felt Stephanie flinch at the words, and I breathed in her ear, "Strong, Babe."

I felt her shoulders tense, and her free hand grabbed mine and gripped it, white knuckled.

"Mom, I broke my engagement to Joe. I'm not going to marry him, and I'm not going back to his house."

"Stephanie, you're making a huge mistake. Joseph loves you very much. He'll be a good husband and a good provider."

"I just can't marry him. I don't love him enough." Her voice was filling up with tears, and I could see drops glistening on her lower lids like diamonds. "I can't go back there."

"Well, if you can't stay with Joseph, then you should come home. I'll move my sewing machine out of your room and get it ready for you."

"No, I'm not coming home. I'm staying with Ranger for a few days until I decide what to do."

"It's not right, Stephanie, living with a man like that. Joseph says he's nothing more than a common criminal, a thug. You should be with your family at a time like this, not some, some… _hoodlum_."

"Ranger's not a hoodlum, or a criminal. He's my friend, and he cares about me."

"Why don't you come to dinner tonight? We can talk things over."

"I can't come tonight."

"Well, we'll see you Sunday, then. Six o'clock."

"Not this week, Mom. I can't come. I'll call you next week and let you know where I'm going to be. Bye."

"Stephanie Plum …" Stephanie snapped the phone shut, cutting her mother off in mid-rant.

"Proud of you, Babe," I said, kissing her on the forehead and hugging her tight. "Now, do you need a nap, or do you want to do something?"

"I think I need to rest a bit. I feel really tired."

"Okay." I stood, lifting her with me and carrying her into the bedroom. "Here you go." I set her down on the edge of the bed.

"What are you going to do?" she asked me.

"I've got some work set up in my office here," I nodded at the office door in the corner of the bedroom, "so I'll be right in there."

Stephanie kicked off her shoes and swung her legs up onto the bed, rolling onto her side with her back to me and curling up into a tight, miserable ball. I leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Have a good rest, Babe, and yell if you need anything."

I tossed the throw from the bench at the foot of the bed over her and went into my office, leaving the door half open so I could hear if she needed anything.

I sat at my desk and stared at the papers in front of me without seeing them. I didn't know what Stephanie was thinking, although she wasn't acting like she hated me anymore. I wanted, no, _needed_ to find out where I stood with her, to ask her if there was any chance for us, but I knew it wasn't wise to push her before she was ready. Just wait, I told myself. Give her time. When she's ready to talk she'll talk.

I thought I understood her better than Morelli did, and her mother, too. But that was before. The pain we'd both experienced had changed us, on the inside as well as on the outside. All I could do was pray that she could still love me, that she'd let me take care of her. I wanted nothing more than that for the rest of my life.

After a short time I heard Stephanie roll over, the bedcovers rustling underneath her. She pounded on the pillow and settled back down. But after a few more minutes she got up and went into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.

I didn't think she was going to try to harm herself again, but last night I'd made sure that all my razors and any sharp objects were removed from the bathroom, pushed far back on a high kitchen shelf that I knew she couldn't even see, let alone reach. No point in taking any chances.

The toilet flushed and water ran. The bathroom door clicked open and the bed soughed as she climbed back on.

Five minutes later she was standing in the office door.

"I can't sleep."

"That's okay, Babe." I studied her face, but for once it revealed nothing of her emotions. "Is there anything special you'd like to do? Watch a movie, read a book, maybe have a snack?"

"I'm not hungry. I'm bored." After a moment she confided, "That was the worst part of staying with Joe. There was nothing to do. I got so sick of daytime TV that I was ready to scream."

"If you're looking for something to do, I've got some searches. We don't have anybody dedicated to doing them in the office, so everyone tries to do their own, but we're way behind."

She perked up. "I could do that. If you really want me to."

"Okay, then. Where do you want to work? Here, or down in your old cubicle?"

Her hands flew together and her fingers began twisting. "Here, if I won't be in your way."

"Good." I stood up, trying not to let her see how much her tentativeness hurt me. She used to be fearless, willing to try anything, even bounty hunting. Now she was timid, apprehensive. I vowed to help her ease back into life until she was ready to fly again.

"Take the desk chair and I'll sit over here." I indicated an armchair, one from the dining room, that was piled with folders and papers.

"I can't take your chair, Ranger."

"Just for now, Babe. I'll have another one brought up. I'm just reading contracts and files anyway, so I can sit here just as well." I pointed to a small pile of folders next to my computer. "Those are searches I was going to do. Why don't you start with a couple of them?"

"Okay." Stephanie settled herself into my big leather chair, looking very small, and opened the first folder.

_oOo_

**Chapter 39**

_The wee hours of the next morning—Friday, December 19_

I jerked awake at Stephanie's cry, springing off the couch, my heart in my throat, rushing into the darkness of the bedroom. In the faint illumination from the bathroom nightlight, I found her hunched in fetal position, knees to chest, her tense form shaking with sobs.

"Babe, Babe, it's okay, I'm here," I said, sitting on the side of the bed and lifting her into my lap.

Her face was wet against my bare chest, and she was taking in air in great wracking gulps. "Don't leave me, Ranger," she choked out.

"I'm not going anywhere, Babe. Shh, shh, don't cry, it was just a dream."

I held her close and rubbed her back, running my hand up and down her spine and massaging her shoulders.

"I'm sorry," she said after a few minutes, sniffling. "It just seemed so real."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"It was… _him_. He … he killed you… shot you over and over again, there was so much blood, and… and you were lying there … dead… on the floor in my apartment, and he … he _laughed_… and then he… he chained me to the wall, and…" her voice broke and she buried her face in my neck.

"Babe, I'm so sorry," I said, not knowing what else to say, not knowing if it would be better or worse for her to know that he was dead. "I promise you I'll keep you safe. I won't let anybody hurt you again, not ever."

I continued to hold her, rocking gently, and when she seemed more relaxed and ready to doze off again I laid her back down on the bed. Her arms clutched at me.

"Don't leave me alone. Stay… Please… Just hold me."

The tension in my chest eased and peace flooded through me as I lay down beside her and pulled her against me, wrapping her in my arms.

"Sleep, Babe," I murmured into her hair. "I've got you."

_oOo_

I awoke in the dark to her fingers dancing lightly along my chest, tracing my pecs, stroking over a nipple and then moving down to my abs. When she reached the waistband of my boxers and began to reach inside I grabbed her hand.

"Stephanie, stop. It's too soon."

"But Ranger, you're taking such good care of me. I want to take care of you, make you happy."

"I'm happy just to have you here, Babe. I don't need anything more than that."

"But you're all ready for me." Her knee edged up over my legs and higher, rubbing against the erection I couldn't control. I rolled toward her to stop it, capturing her leg between mine.

"No, Babe," I whispered, holding her close, kissing her forehead.

"Don't you want me?" Her voice was high and thick with tears.

"I want you, Babe, more than anything. But not like this. Not as some kind of payment."

"Joe always liked it when I did him."

"You should know by now that I'm nothing like Joe." Her words hurt, and my voice was hard. I gentled it. "When you want me, really want me for _you,_ it will happen."

I rolled her over and pulled her close, her back to my front, allowing my hard-on to nestle against her ass.

"I love you, Babe," I whispered, kissing the side of her head. "Go back to sleep."

We lay there tight together and before long her breathing evened out and her body relaxed.

_oOo_

We spent Friday morning in Princeton at Stephanie's regular appointment with Carole, and the afternoon in my small office on the seventh floor. I'd had the guys bring up another desk chair, a small table and a laptop for Stephanie to use. I was hoping she'd ease back into working for me and maybe eventually feel comfortable enough to go down to the fifth floor. Sometimes keeping busy is the best medicine.

At 1800 I made Stephanie stop working and moved us out into the living room with bottles of water, channel surfing until I found a movie that she seemed interested in. She snuggled up against my side on the couch and I kept my arm around her. I wasn't sure if she'd forgiven me for what happened to her, and I knew it was almost inevitable that she would ask me about my past, but I was just grateful to have her here.

At six-thirty there was a sharp tap on the apartment door, making Stephanie jump.

"Who's that?" The apprehension in her voice saddened me, reminding me again how much she'd changed.

"I invited Tank and Lula to have dinner with us. Lula's been wanting to see you for months. Come on, let's let them in."

I rose from the couch, pulling Stephanie up with me, and kept my arm around her as we answered the door.

"Whoa, girlfriend, talk about skinny white girls, just look at you!'" Lula exclaimed, grabbing Stephanie and hugging her. "There ain't hardly nothing left o' you. I shoulda brought some Boston crèmes. They'd put some meat back on your bony white ass."

Stephanie stiffened for a second, but then relaxed and hugged her back. "Lula, it's great to see you. How's Connie? And how are things at the bonds office?"

Conversation stayed general during dinner, with Lula telling stories about skips and Connie and Vinnie. The music of Stephanie's laughter made my heart ache, realizing it was the first time I'd heard it in almost eight months.

After dinner I said, "If you ladies would excuse us for a few minutes, Tank and I have a little bit of business to take care of."

I led Tank through the bedroom into my office, leaving both doors ajar, wanting to make sure Stephanie was okay with Lula. Their voices were just audible, first laughing, and then dropping to a murmur.

"Looks like the Bombshell is doing okay," Tank rumbled as I picked up a pile of papers to go over with him.

"She still has a long way to go," I responded, "but having Lula here is a good start."

Later, as we bid Tank and Lula goodnight Stephanie said to me, "If it's okay with you, Lula's coming back over tomorrow afternoon. We still have a lot of catching up to do."

"Of course, Babe," I said. "You don't need to ask my permission to have friends over."

When I came out of the bathroom at bedtime I glanced over at Stephanie in the bed, wondering whether to go back out to the couch. Without a word she flipped back the covers and patted my side of the bed. Relief and gratitude poured through me as I climbed in, pulling her close. Our sleep was long and dreamless as we clung together.

Saturday afternoon Lula arrived carrying a box from the Tasty Pastry and a two-liter bottle of Coke. I grabbed a pile of papers from my office and went down to the fifth floor, telling Stephanie that if she needed me to just hit the intercom for five.

Hours later the control room informed me Lula was leaving, so I went back up to seven.

Stephanie's eyes and nose were red, but she smiled when she saw me. "How was your visit with Lula?" I asked.

"Lula's doing more good for me than all the shrinks in the world," she said. "She's been where I was, and what she went through with Ramirez was even worse. But she didn't let it destroy her. She's incredibly strong. I wish I could be half as strong."

"Babe, your strength amazes me," I told her, pulling her tight against me for a moment. "So… Ella's off for the weekend. What do you want for dinner?"

She cocked her head. "Chinese?"

"Perfect. I'll get the menu."

_TBC_


	17. Chapters 40 & 41

**Chapter 40**

_Three days later—Tuesday, December 23_

"I need to talk to you," Stephanie's tone was serious.

Oh, fuck, this is it. I knew it was inevitable, but Stephanie isn't the only one around here that does denial. "Sure, Babe. About what?"

"Can we go sit down?"

At my nod she walked into the living room and sat down in the armchair. Not in her normal spot on the couch. Double fuck.

I grabbed a couple bottles of water from the refrigerator and handed her one before dropping onto the couch opposite her.

"What do you want to talk about, Babe?" Still in denial, praying it was something else, anything else.

"I really want to understand. Could you tell me about _him? _I need to know the whole story."

My stomach flared up, shooting pain through my chest, but I locked down and kept my face neutral. "It's classified. I can't talk about it."

"He kidnapped me… He hooked me on drugs… He whipped me, and raped me, and sold me into prostitution… He ruined my life." Every bullet point of the horrors Stephanie had experienced was another knife in my gut. "He said it was because of you, and what you did to his family. Don't you think I deserve to know the truth? To know about you?"

"The truth is, what happened to him was a long time ago. My life has changed and I've changed. I'm not the same man I was then."

"I need to know you, every part of you, even what you were back then. Not knowing is holding me back, keeping me from healing. Knowing will help me move on, put it all behind me."

I slowly shook my head. I didn't want to have to tell her. I didn't want to see the disappointment in her eyes.

Her shoulders slumped and I saw the disappointment anyway. Disappointment with me. It broke my heart.

My exhale was audible. If telling her would help her heal from the atrocities that were perpetrated upon her because of me, then I should tell her, no matter what the consequences to myself.

"Let me make a phone call," I said, getting up from the couch, "If you need to know, I'll see if I can get clearance to tell you."

I pulled out my phone and walked through the bedroom into my office.

A few minutes later I came back out carrying a single sheet of paper. "Babe, this is a secrecy agreement. It says you agree never to reveal any confidential information you learn working with RangeMan and the Defense Department. If you sign this, I can tell you about that one mission."

She skimmed it and signed.

Leaving the paper and pen lying on the coffee table between us I sat back down on the couch. I didn't want to see her reaction to my words, but I leaned forward, forearms on my knees, hands clasped between my legs, and forced myself to look her in the eye. Trying to remain expressionless I began.

"Santiago Torres was a drug lord in South America, high up in the drug distribution hierarchy. He was harming thousands of people with the drugs he moved through his territory and on to pipelines into the United States and other countries. Our mission was to capture him, extract information about those above him in the production and distribution chain, and then terminate him."

I took a sip of water before continuing. "Besides distributing drugs, he was twisted and evil. He was known as El Látigo, the Whip, because of what he liked to do." Stephanie's expressive face showed what she was feeling, and I stopped trying to hide my pain.

"He took prostitutes and kept them prisoner for months at a time, using them the way he used you, and even worse. None of them lived to tell about it." I shifted my weight, not wanting to squirm but unable to hold still.

"Through some local contacts we were able to find one of the houses where he was keeping a woman. She was…" I stopped and swallowed, thinking about how much worse it was than what he had done to Stephanie. "She was very bad, barely alive, but he had taken her to his home for a few days when nobody else was there, and she told us where it was."

I drank again, a delaying tactic, but I could only hold off so long. "We watched his house for several days. There were a couple of servants with his wife and son, but El Látigo wasn't there, so we waited. When he came home we took the house. We locked the servants and family in a secured room in the basement and went to work on El Látigo."

I couldn't keep my eyes on Stephanie's anymore, and I lowered my head, elbows on my knees, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.

"My team and I tortured him off and on for two days, but no matter what we did he wouldn't talk. As a last resort we brought his family in. We burned his wife with a cigarette, listening to her screaming and crying and begging him to tell us what we wanted to know. But he still didn't say a word. So we got his son. He was about a year old, and we only had to burn him once to make El Látigo spill everything."

I looked up at the revulsion on her face and knew I'd lost any chance I ever had with her. I put my head back in my hands and finished the story blindly, compulsively, wanting her to know every last detail of my atrocities.

"We left them all there locked in the basement of the mansion and set charges. We couldn't leave any witnesses, and it was designed to be an example for others who might be tempted to move in and take over the business. The house went up like an ammo dump, blowing a huge hole in the jungle. I still have no idea how El Látigo could have survived it."

It was important to me that she understood that some good had come from the appalling things I'd done. "We followed orders and did what was required to complete the mission, and the intel allowed us to shut down the drug business in almost half of South America. I can't say exactly how many lives we saved by doing that, but I'm positive there were many."

While I was confessing, I decided to make a thorough job of it. "That wasn't an isolated incident, Stephanie. For more than half of the eight years I was in Rangers and Special Ops I performed missions like that. There's nothing you can imagine more horrendous than the things I did in the name of my country."

The pain in my stomach was intense, but nowhere near the potency of the pain in my heart. I kept my face hidden in my hands and doubled over to try to ease my agony, waiting for Stephanie to get her things and leave.

She got up from the chair and walked out of the room, and I was lost. Hot tears scalded my cheeks and the acid burned and churned in my gut.

_oOo_

**Chapter 41**

I was so engulfed by my anguish that I was unaware that Stephanie had come back into the room until cool fingers curved around the back of my neck.

"Here," she said, handing me the box of tissues from the bathroom. She grabbed a couple of tissues for herself and mopped tears from her face as she sat down on the couch next to me.

"Babe." I could barely get the word out. I felt a faint welling of hope deep inside me, but I ruthlessly quashed it. She was just being kind, taking care of me in my distress the way I took care of her when she had nightmares.

"It's all right, Ranger," she said, putting her hand back on my neck and using gentle pressure to turn my head so she could see my face. "I understand now." She used the same words I remembered saying to her after her nightmare. "It's okay. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

I felt like a condemned man granted a full pardon.

She used a hand on my chest to push me upright against the back of the sofa. Keeping her eyes locked with mine she climbed onto my lap, straddling me, cradling my face in the palms of her hands and using her thumbs to wipe the moisture from my cheeks.

"Practically every appointment I've had with Carole for the past three months has ended up being about you," she said. "Carole never tells me what to do, but she asks questions that make me think."

"I don't understand, Babe."

"Like about our history, before… _him._ I'm not sure you know how much I loved you." Her use of the past tense was a deep freeze in my chest, turning my heart cold and brittle, ready to shatter with the lightest tap. "That's the reason I was on-again off-again with Joe, couldn't commit to him. I was only with Joe because you wouldn't open up to me, wouldn't allow a relationship in your life."

I encircled her tiny waist with my hands. "I was a fool, Stephanie. Sending you back to him was the stupidest thing I've ever done. I'm so sorry you had to pay for my stupidity."

Her look was serious. "I thought I hated you for being the cause of what happened to me. I thought I never wanted to see you again. But that's what almost destroyed me."

"I still don't understand."

"It wasn't you I hated; it was myself, because I couldn't stop loving you." Hope was battering my chest like a jackhammer chipping away the ice.

She continued to hold my face in both hands, her blue gaze burning like napalm. "After what _he_ told me about you, I felt betrayed. I thought I loved you because in my heart I knew that you were a good man. If I was wrong, if you were evil and soulless, then how could I still love you?"

The tears that had been brimming overflowed her eyes, and I pulled her tight to me, murmuring into her hair, "I didn't want you to know about my past, what I was. My life has changed and I've changed. You made me want to be a better man, Babe. Because of you I _am_ a better man."

Her arms slid around my neck. "What I went through taught me that between you and me there's no good or evil, no judging, no worthiness or unworthiness. There's just love. It's there, no matter what happens."

Her mouth came up, her lips seeking mine, and I kissed her, tenderness mingled with relief, my heart warming like the spring sun melts away the winter ice.

"I love you, Ranger," she murmured against my lips.

I pulled back and stared into her eyes until they focused on me. "Carlos, Babe," I commanded. "It's not Ranger, not Batman, not any kind of superhero or larger-than-life image. It's just me, Carlos. I love you, Stephanie."

"I love you, Carlos."

_oOo_

Stephanie and I spent Christmas alone in the apartment, snuggled on the couch, watching TV, listening to music, and talking. Since it had only been a week since she moved in with me, we decided to forego the gifts for this year and just enjoy our first Christmas together. The first of many, I hoped.

She called her mother on Christmas Eve and told her that she hadn't been well enough to do any shopping, and wasn't up to the pressure of a family holiday. Her mother argued, but Stephanie held firm to both her opinion and my hand as she talked. She appeased her mother by promising to bring me to dinner in a few weeks and exchange gifts then.

My family hadn't seen me at Christmastime for years, and didn't expect to. Ella took care of sending them the usual gifts.

_oOo_

_A week-and-a-half later—Friday, January 2_

Stephanie cuddled into my side as we sat on the couch. "Carlos, I was wondering… When _he_ took me, how did you ever find me?"

Every Tuesday and Friday after Stephanie saw Carole, she had questions for me. Over those first few weeks together we talked more than in the whole three previous years we'd known each other. She told me what she remembered about what happened to her, mercifully hazy because of all the drugs El Látigo forced into her. I made a genuine effort to open up, revealing myself to her the way her open countenance and innocent heart always revealed her innermost thoughts to me.

"Well, Babe, you know about the federal task force, right?"

"What task force?"

"Didn't Morelli tell you about it?"

"Actually… Joe never mentioned my kidnapping. We never talked about it at all."

I pulled her into my lap, turning her so that I could see her face. "Didn't you ask him about it? He spent more than a month looking for you."

"No… I… We didn't really talk much at all. He talked about his friends and family, sometimes about his work and stuff, but I guess he didn't want to upset me by reminding me of what happened. And by the time I started seeing Carole and beginning to face it, I never asked him."

"Do you want to hear the whole thing, Babe? Right from the night we found you were missing?"

"Yes, please."

I spilled my guts, told her the whole story, sharing not only the facts, but my feelings, the pain, the guilt, the regret, the determination to never give up, even after the task force was disbanded.

And I told her about El Látigo's end.

Her nightmares about him stopped for good after that.

Later I tried to explain to Stephanie why I thought my life didn't lend itself to relationships, but it sounded pretty lame, even to me. I'd been using that as an excuse for years, deluding myself that it was to protect her but in actuality protecting myself from the effort that would be required to maintain a relationship.

Stephanie's kidnapping was the catalyst that caused me to pull my head out of my ass. Stephanie forgave me, her innate goodness allowing her to do that, but I don't think I'll ever forgive myself. And I'll never forget.

_TBC—Last chapter and epilogue next._


	18. Chapter 42 & Epilogue

**Chapter 42**

_A month later—Sunday, February 1_

I pulled into my spot in the garage, turned off the ignition and reached for Stephanie, pulling her over the console into my lap. All the way home from her parents' house I'd had a steel rod in the front of my pants as I watched her in my peripheral vision. We'd done some pretty heavy-duty kissing to celebrate surviving our first dinner with her family, and she was perpetual motion in the seat next to me. The throbbing of the Turbo's powerful engine vibrating beneath us added to the stimulation of the hot kisses. Thank God we were home.

Dinner with Stephanie's family had gone a lot better than I expected, with no discussion about the broken engagement or the benefits of marrying Joe Morelli. Stephanie talked to her mother on the phone several times over the past month and explained why she couldn't marry Morelli. Mrs. Plum was appalled to hear how little attention he'd paid to Stephanie's needs, and had reconsidered her estimation of him as good husband material.

Morelli had been a royal pain in the ass over the past six weeks, constantly calling and trying to see Stephanie, even after Mrs. Plum stopped supporting his cause. So a couple of evenings ago we invited him to the apartment to discuss matters. Stephanie held tight to my hand and told him in no uncertain terms how she felt about him.

To give him credit, he was horrified to realize that his treatment of her had been borderline sexual abuse. She'd never objected, in fact she initiated the contact, and he honestly had no idea that he was treating her like the prostitute El Látigo had made of her. What a fool.

After a muttered, "I'm sorry, Cupcake," he took off, head down. I don't think Stephanie will be hearing from him again.

Mrs. Plum was an excellent dinner hostess, warm and cordial, keeping the conversation flowing comfortably. She asked Stephanie about the work she was doing for Rangeman and me about the security business in general, and she didn't hesitate to voice her satisfaction that Stephanie was safe and comfortable in her job. Frank Plum didn't say much, but we had some silent communication and I could sense his approval.

Stephanie's crazy grandmother spent the whole evening with her eyes fixed on my crotch, making me shrivel to prune consistency like fruit left too long in the sun.

That was no longer a problem as Stephanie flung her arms around my neck and kissed me hard, our teeth clashing. Then our mouths were open and when our tongues touched I felt the jolt as the power of it hit her body, even as the same force rocketed through mine.

She moaned, then tore her mouth away, saying, "Oh God, Carlos, I want you so much."

"I don't know, Babe," I teased her. "Do you think you're ready?"

"I'm so ready I think my panties are going to burst into flames."

I got out of the car holding her pressed tight against me, my hands under her butt, her arms and legs wrapped around me. As I stepped into the elevator my heart was lighter than it had been in years, maybe ever.

For the past month I'd been easing Stephanie toward this moment. She hadn't tried to touch me again after I stopped her that night back in December, but we'd grown closer and closer, spending almost every waking moment together, sleeping with our bodies entangled every night. Lately I'd been tantalizing her with kisses and touches meant to arouse, to stimulate her hormones, to make her want me the way I wanted her, and it was time.

The elevator door dinged open on the seventh floor and I carried Stephanie into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind me. I pushed her up against the wall in the entranceway and pressed my cock hard between her legs.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Babe?" I asked again.

"Carlos," she murmured, planting feathery kisses on my face and down my throat. "Yes, Carlos, I'm positive. Now will you _please_ make love to me?"

Without another word I carried her into the bedroom.

_oOo_

**Epilogue—A Part of Me**

_You've become a part of me  
You'll always be right here  
You've become a part of me  
You'll always be my fear  
I can't separate  
Myself from what I've done  
Giving up a part of me  
I've let myself become you  
—Linkin Park (Figure.09, Meteora)_

_Eleven months later—Monday, January 4_

"Who's on duty today?" Stephanie asked me as we were eating breakfast. "I need to find a dress for Lula and Tank's shower and get a gift for them."

It was the first workday of a new year, another good one, I prayed. The past year with Stephanie was the best of my life.

She didn't want to go out for New Year's Eve, so we spent the evening making out on the couch, Stephanie sitting on my lap to watch the ball drop on TV. Then I took her to bed and made love to her over and over again, her cries of ecstasy ringing in the New Year. What better way to begin?

I watched as she nibbled on a small triangle of multi-grain toast. She was dressed in her black RangeMan uniform, long glossy brunette curls tumbling down her back and framing her face. I reached out and twisted a ringlet around my finger as I leaned over to snatch a coffee-flavored kiss.

Stephanie is as beautiful as she's ever been, with the scars on her back and ankle faded to near invisibility, although the puckered white burn circles on her arms will remain a forever reminder and testament to the need for vigilance. She's still much thinner than before the kidnapping, without the same zest for eating. I'm thinner, as well, although my ulcers have healed and I've gained enough weight back so that the lines in my face are a little less pronounced.

"Mmm…" Stephanie turned toward me to meet my kiss, sliding her hands around my neck, threading her fingers into my hair. I keep it long because she likes it that way, even though the change in color changed its texture, the white hair coarser than my former dark brown. I can't be bothered to dye it, and Stephanie kids me occasionally, calling me her distinguished-looking "older gentleman." I prefer it when her eyes darken to cobalt and she tells me that no matter what color my hair is, I'm still the hottest thing on three legs.

I released her lips and answered her question. "Brett and Binkie are covering you."

"Oh, good. They'll be fine at the mall. I'm glad it's not Cal and Junior. The last time I tried to go shopping with them the clerk in Macy's called store security and we ended up having to leave."

I smiled at her. It warmed my heart seeing her so matter of fact about going to the mall, and yet I had that niggling sense of apprehension that persists whenever she goes anywhere without me, that fear of losing her again.

It took eight months before I managed to let Stephanie leave the RangeMan building without taking her myself. Finally in August when she wanted to shop for a present for my birthday I sent her to the mall with four guards, including Tank. And even now, going on two years since the kidnapping, she never goes anywhere without at least two men on her. She accepts the protection without question, having still not regained the stubborn independence that was once her hallmark. At this point I doubt she'll ever get it back.

"Tell me again why I have to go to this shower?" I asked. "I always thought wedding showers were a female thing." I wasn't looking forward to the event, and security was going to be a bear with the crowd and the fact that most of my men would be there as guests.

"You know perfectly well that co-ed showers are the norm now." She winked at me and I felt a stirring, thinking about a co-ed shower of another kind.

She read my mind and grinned. "Down, boy. It's really just a party to show them how happy we are that they're getting married. And since we're standing up for them, it's important that we're there."

Tank and Lula had stood up for us, too, and were the only ones present when Stephanie and I were married in May in a quiet civil ceremony at City Hall. Mrs. Plum was disappointed that there was no big wedding with all the attendant fuss and flutter, but she accepted our announcement and seemed pleased to have Stephanie married and settled.

Since we were both divorced there were too many hoops to jump through, annulments and special dispensations, to be married in the church. I'd checked. I still drop by St. James sometimes, though, lighting a candle and thanking God for giving Stephanie back to me.

For our honeymoon I leased a private island in the Caribbean for a month, securing it with a team of twelve armed guards patrolling the beaches in shifts. They stayed out of our way, but we both knew they were there and felt safer for it.

"I've got the Commadelphia meeting today, Babe, potential huge account," I told Stephanie. "I need to put on a suit and then I'll be on three most of the day. Ella's serving lunch, and there's a good chance I'll end up going out to dinner with them, too. Are you available to join us? Your charm could be the swing factor in closing the deal."

She wrinkled her nose at me. She still has that modesty that prevents her from recognizing her considerable personal strengths, but her self-confidence has grown noticeably over the past year.

"Well, I'm not sure how much help I can be, but I'd love to go to dinner with you. I'm going to try to get most of my work done this morning and then I'm meeting Connie at the mall for lunch and shopping. I should be back in the office by four, so just let me know about dinner."

She gave me a perfunctory kiss and started for the door, but I beat her there, backing her up against the wall and capturing her lips, putting lots of tongue into the kiss until she was swaying and moaning.

I've cut back considerably on my work schedule since Stephanie and I have been together, doing only what absolutely requires my personal attention, mainly dealing with clients and contracts. When I have to travel to the other RangeMan offices Stephanie goes with me, and she now has her own desk in each branch and responsibilities above and beyond just computer searches. Even though she's not as outgoing as she was before the kidnapping, her beautiful smile and reserved friendliness have charmed my men in Miami, Boston and Atlanta as thoroughly as those in Trenton.

I named Tank managing partner for all of RangeMan, giving him a one-fourth share in the company, and he's been doing an outstanding job running things. Business is flourishing, our investments are skyrocketing in spite of swings in the economy, and we have more money than Stephanie and I could spend in three lifetimes.

"Oh, my," Stephanie gasped, touching a finger to her red, swollen lips when I finally released her. "Wow."

"Just wanted to make sure you weren't taking me for granted, Babe." I gave her what she likes to call my wolf-grin and she responded with a grin of her own.

"Never, Cariño." She gave me a smack on the butt and walked out the door, headed for the fifth floor.

It took her a couple of months to muster the courage to begin working downstairs again. She was uncomfortable being the only woman in a company full of men who knew everything about the kidnapping and the hell she'd undergone. I eased the transition by bringing the guys up to the apartment one or two at a time so that she had the opportunity to get used to them again.

When she finally did go down to the fifth floor, I had Tank assign her a private office rather than a cubicle, and I stayed close for the first few days to make sure nobody made a fuss or embarrassed her. She's happy now working for RangeMan and has never mentioned going back to bounty hunting. I hope she never will.

After our little talk last year Joe Morelli stopped trying to see Stephanie and moved on. In spite of his long hours and frequent undercover assignments he's managed to date a series of nurses and teachers and waitresses. He's still looking for his ideal woman, a wildcat in bed, a gourmet chef in the kitchen, and a potential Supermom for a brood of children. He hasn't settled on anyone yet, and I can understand why. Once you've been with Stephanie nobody else seems to measure up.

As I changed into my suit and tied my hair back my mind drifted to yesterday's Sunday dinner at the Plum house, grateful to have that over with for another month. The first thing I did when Stephanie came to live with me was cut the weekly dinners down to monthly.

Stephanie's father and grandmother have accepted me into the family easily, although Grandma Mazur still stares at me in a way that sends my balls skittering for cover.

Mrs. Plum has been understanding and accepting of Stephanie's choices over the past year, but she can't always hide her disappointment that Stephanie doesn't fit neatly into the Burg mold. As soon as we got married she began to drop not-so-subtle hints about pregnancy and the importance of having a family. I stopped by one afternoon to have a private chat with her, and the badgering ended.

But deep in my heart I've begun to feel a longing. I still only see my daughter Julie once or twice a year, and approaching middle age, I'm at a point in my life that I want to leave some kind of legacy in the world. A child. Perhaps a son to carry on my name, to take over the business. Or a daughter, so that I can be the father I never was to Julie.

Stephanie was getting the three-month birth control shots before she was kidnapped, and resumed them when she returned to Trenton. I wonder what she would think about stopping them and just seeing what happens.

I'll talk to her about it tonight.

_When my time comes  
Forget the wrong that I've done  
Help me leave behind some  
Reasons to be missed  
And don't resent me  
And when you're feeling empty  
Keep me in your memory  
Leave out all the rest  
—Linkin Park (Leave Out All the Rest, Minutes to Midnight)_

_The End_


End file.
